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CLOVERNOOK 


OF. 


RECOLLECTIONS 


% 

OF 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD  IN  THE  WEST 

/ 

SECOND  SERIES. 

BY  ALICE  CAREY. 


REDFIELD, 

110  &  112  NASSAU-STREET,  NEW  YORK. 

1853. 


Entered,  according  to  act  of  Congress, 
in  tbe  year  one  Thousand  Eight  Hundred  and  Fifty-three, 
By  J.  S.  REDFIELD, 

in  the  Clerk’s  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United 
States,  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


A.  CUNNINGHAM, 

STEREOTYPE  R, 

No.  183  William-street,  New-York. 


C*l5*e 


CONTENTS. 


CN 

in 

O' 


THE  PAST . 

MRS.  WETHERBY’S  PARTY . 

ZEBULON  SANDS . 

LEARNING  CONTENT . 

THE  TWO  VISITS . 

UNCLE  WILLIAM’S . 

UNCLE  CHRISTOPHER’S . 

MY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH . 

WHY  MOLLY  ROOT  GOT  MARRIED . 

CHARLOTTE  RYAN . 

THE  SUICIDE . 

THE  COLLEGIAN’S  MISTAKE . 

THE  DIFFERENCE,  AND  WHAT  MADE  IT 

ELSIE'S  GHOST  STORY . 

WARD  HENDERSON . 

CONCLUSION . . 


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402271 


RECOLLECTIONS 


OF 

OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD  IN  THE  WEST. 


THE  PAST. 

We  do  not  suffer  our  minds  to  dwell  sufficiently  on  the  past. 
Though  now  and  then  there  is  one  who  thinks  it  wise  to  talk 
with  the  hours  that  are  gone,  and  ask  them  what  report  they 
bore  to  Heaven,  this  sort  of  communion  is  for  the  most  part 
imposed  as  a  duty  and  not  felt  to  be  a  delight. 

The  sun  sets,  and  our  thoughts  bathe  themselves  in  the  fresh¬ 
ness  of  the  morning  that  is  to  come,  and  fancy  busies  herself 
in  shaping  some  great  or  good  thing  that  is  waiting  just  beyond 
the  night ;  and  though,  time  after  time,  we  discover  that  Fancy 
is  a  cheat  and  lies  away  our  hearts  into  unsubstantial  realms, 
we  trust  her  anew  without  question  or  hesitancy  ;  and  so  the 
last  sun  sets,  too  often,  ere  we  look  back  and  seriously  consider 
our  ways. 

I  have  met  with  some  writer,  1  think  Hazlitt,  in  his  “  Table 
Talk,”  with  whom  my  estimate  of  the  past  harmonizes  perfectly  : 
“Am  I  mocked  with  a  lie  when  I  venture  to  think  of  it1?”  he 
asks,  “  or  do  1  not  drink  in  and  breathe  again  the  air  of  heavenly 
truth,  when  I  but  retrace  its  footsteps,  and  its  skirts  far  off 

1* 


10 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


adore  '?”  And,  in  continuation,  he  says,  u  It  is  the  past  that 
gives  me  most  delight,  and  most  assurance  of  reality.”  For 
him  the  great  charm  of  the  Confessions,  of  Rousseau,  is  their 
turning  so  much  on  this  feeling — his  gathering  up  the  departed 
moments  of  his  being,  like  drops  of  honey-dew,  to  distil  a  pre¬ 
cious  liquor  from  them — his  making  of  alternate  pleasures  and 
pains  the  bead-roll  that  he  tells  over  and  piously  worships  ; 
and  he  ends  by  inquiring,  “  Was  all  that  had  happened  to  him, 
all  that  he  had  thought  and  felt,  to  be  accounted  nothing  ?  W as 
that  long  and  faded  retrospect  of  years,  happy  or  miserable,  a 
blank  that  was  to  make  his  eyes  fail  and  his  heart  faint  within 
him  in  trying  to  grasp  all  that  had  once  vanished,  because  it  was 
not  a  prospect  into  futurity 

Yesterday  has  been,  and  is,  a  bright  or  dark  layer  in  the  time 
that  makes  up  the  ages ;  we  are  certain  of  it,  with  its  joys  or 
sorrows ;  to-morrow  we  may  never  see,  or  if  we  do,  how  shall 
it  be  better  than  the  days  that  are  gone — the  times  when  our 
feet  were  stronger  for  the  race,  and  our  hearts  fuller  of  hope — - 
when,  perchance,  our  “eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  that  spake 
again,  and  all  went  merry  '?”  Why  should  we  look  forward  so 
eagerly,  where  the  way  grows  more  dusty  and  weary  all  the 
time,  and  is  never  smooth  till  it  strikes  across  the  level  floor 
of  the  grave,  when,  a  little  way  back,  we  may  gather  hands- 
ful  of  fresh  flowers  %  Whatever  evils  are  about  us,  is  it  not 
very  comforting  to  have  been  blessed,  and  to  sit  alone  with  our 
hearts  and  woo  back  the  visions  of  departed  joys'?  And  who 
of  us  all  has  had  so  barren  and  isolate  a  life  that  it  is  gladdened 
by  no  times  and  seasons  which  it  pleases  us  to  think  eternity 
cannot  make  dim  nor  quite  sweep  into  forgetfulness  'l 

For  myself,  when  I  move  in  the  twilight  or  the  hearthlight, 
thought,  in  spite  of  the  interest  that  attaches  to  uncertainty, 
travels  oftener  to  the  days  that  have  been,  than  to  those  that 
are  to  come.  With  the  dear  playmate  who  has  been  asleep  so 
many  years,  I  am  walking  again,  pulling  from  the  decayed  logs 
mosses  that  make  for  us  brighter  carpets  than  the  most  inge¬ 
nious  looms  of  men  may  weave;  I  am  treading  on  the  May 
grass  and  breathing  its  fragrance  anew;  I  am  glad  because  of  a 
bird’s  nest  in  the  bush,  and  feel  a  tearful  joyousncssi  when  the 


THE  PAST. 


11 


cedar  pail  brims  up  with  warm  milk,  or  the  breath  of  the  heifer, 
sweet  as  the  airs  that  come  creeping  over  the  clover  field,  is 
close  upon  my  cheek  while  I  pat  her  sleek  neck,  praising  her 
bounty.  Then  there  are  such  bright  plans  to  plan  over  !  what 
though  so  many  of  them  have  failed  1  they  had  not  failed  then, 
but  seemed  very  good  and  beautiful,  and  it  is  as  easy  to  go 
down  to  the  bases  of  our  dreams,  as  to  think  of  their  tottering 
and  falling.  True,  as  I  am  putting  flowers  among  the  locks 
over  which  the  dust  lies  now,  I  must  needs  sometimes  think  of 
the  dust,  but  that  I  can  cover  with  flowers  also,  and  feel  that 
there  is  no  moaning  in  the  sleep  which  is  beneath  them.  There 
is  another  too,  not  a  playmate,  for  whom,  as  the  evening  star 
climbs  over  the  western  tree-tops,  I  watch,  joyfully,  for  hope 
has  as  yet  never  been  chilled  by  disappointment.  And  sure 
enough,  the  red  twilight  has  not  burned  itself  out,  nor  the 
insects  ceased  to  make  their  ado,  before  the  music  of  the  fami¬ 
liar  footstep  sounds  along  the  hush  of  a  close-listening,  and 
“  One  single  spot  is  all  the  world  to  me.” 

Blow  on,  oh,  wild  wind,  and  stir  the  woods  that  are  divided 
from  me  now  by  distance  and  by  time,  for  in  your  murmurs 
there  is  a  voice  that  makes  my  heart  young  again;  clouds  of 
the  April,  travel  softly  and  rain  sweetly  till  the  meadows  are 
speckled  with  lilies,  and  the  swollen  streams  flow  over  their 
banks,  for  I  seem  to  see  on  the  sprouting  grass  the  sheets  of 
the  bridal  bed  bleaching  white.  Death  came  first  to  the  mar¬ 
riage  feast,  and  she  whose  hopes  I  made  mine  and  with  whose 
eyes  I  watched,  is  wrapt  daintily  in  the  shroud  of  snow. 

And  yet,  not  alone  for  its  beauty,  not  even  for  its  solemn 
eloquence,  do  I  look  and  listen  to  the  past.  It  makes  me  feel 
life’s  reality  ;  it  makes  me  know  its  responsibility,  and  put 
down  the  hasty  word  that  might  rankle  deeply  and  long,  and 
hold  undropt  the  pebble  that  might  stir  the  whole  sea  of  life;  it 
makes  me  reverent  of  others,  and  distrustful  of  myself.  I  remem¬ 
ber  silences  where  kind  words  might  have  been,  and  what  is 
worse,  impetuous  and  inconsiderate  behavior  for  which  I  can¬ 
not  be  penitent  enough.  But  aside  from  its  rebuking  spirit — 
outside  of  any  good  or  evil  that  is  in  it — the  past  is  loved  by  me, 
and  my  pleasantest  pastime  is  to  take  up  the  threads  of  the  lives 


12 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


that  have  crossed  mine  and  weave  their  histories  anew,  mingling 
in  the  light  and  shadow  of  destiny  till  I  lose  them  in  the  dis¬ 
tance,  or  find  them  sinking  in  the  valley  where  there  is  “  rest 
to  the  labor  and  peace  to  the  pain.” 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


13 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 

I. 

Longer  than  I  can  remember,  my  father,  who  is  an  old  man 
now,  has  been  in  the  habit  of  driving  every  Friday  morning 
from  his  home,  seven  miles  away,  to  this  goodly  city  in  which 
I  now  live.  I  may  well  say  goodly  city,  from  the  view  which 
presents  itself  as  I  look  out  from  the  window  under  which  I 
have  placed  my  table  for  the  writing  of  this  history,  for  my 
home  is  in  the  “hilly  country  ”  that  overlooks  this  Western 
Queen,  whose  gracious  sovereignty  I  am  proud  to  acknowledge, 
and  within  whose  fair  dominions  this  hilly  country  lies. 

I  cannot  choose  but  pause  and  survey  the  picture  :  the  Ken¬ 
tucky  shore  is  all  hidden  with  mist,  so  that  I  try  in  vain  to  see 
the  young  cities  of  which  the  sloping  suburbs  are  washed  by 
the  Ohio,  river  of  beauty  !  except  here  and  there  the  gleam  of 
a  white  wall,  or  a  dense  column  of  smoke  that  rises  through 
the  silver  mist  from  hot  furnaces  where  swart  labor  drives  the 
thrifty  trades,  speeding  the  march  to  elegance  and  wealth.  I 
cannot  see  the  blue  green  nor  the  golden  green  of  the  oat  and 
wheat  fields,  that  lie  beyond  these  infant  cities,  nor  the  dark 
ridge  of  woods  that  folds  its  hem  of  shadows  along  their  bor¬ 
ders,  for  all  day  yesterday  fell  one  of  those  rains  that  would 
seem  to  exhaust  the  clouds  of  the  deepest  skies,  and  the  soaked 
earth  this  morning  sends  up  its  coal-scented  and  unwholesome 
fogs,  obscuring  the  lovely  picture  that  would  else  present  itself. 

I  can  only  guess  where  the  garrison  is.  I  could  not  hear 
“  The  sullen  cry  of  the  sentinel,” 

even  if  the  time  of  challenge  were  not  passed — though  long 
before  the  sunrise  I  woke  to  the  music  of  the  reveille,  that 


14 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


comes  morn  after  morn  floating  over  the  waters  and  through 
the  crimson  daybreak,  to  chase  the  dream  from  my  pillow. 
Faintly  I  discern  the  observatory  crowning  the  summit  of  the 
mount  above  me,  and  see  more  distinctly  at  its  base  the  red 
bricks  of  St.  Philomena,  and  more  plainly  still  the  brown  iron 
and  glittering  brass  of  its  uplifted  spire,  with  the  sorrowful 
beauty  of  the  cross  over  all ;  while  midway  between  me  and 
the  white  shining  of  the  tower  of  the  cathedral,  away  toward 
the  evening  star,  I  catch  the  dark  outline  of  St.  Xavier. 

Beautiful !  As  I  said,  I  cannot  choose  but  pause  and  gaze. 
And  now,  the  mists  are  lifting  more  and  more,  and  the  sunshine 
comes  dropping  down  through  their  sombre  folds  to  the  damp 
ground. 

Growing,  on  the  view,  into  familiar  shapes,  comes  out  point 
after  point  of  the  landscape — towers  and  temples,  and  forest 
and  orchard  trees,  and  meadow-land — the  marts  of  traffic  and 
the  homes  of  men ;  and  among  these  last  there  is  one,  very 
pretty,  and  whose  inmates,  as  you  guess  from  the  cream-white 
walls,  overrun  with  clematis  and  jasmine,  and  the  clambering 
stalks  of  roses,  are  not  devoid  of  some  simple  refinement  of 
taste  from  which  an  inference  of  their  happiness  may  be  drawn — 
for  the  things  we  feel  are  exhibited  in  the  things  we  do. 

The  white-pebbled  walk,  leading  from  the  gate  to  the  door¬ 
way,  is  edged  with  close  miniature  pyramids  of  box,  and  the 
smoothly-shaven  sward  is  shadowed  by  various  bushes  and 
flowers,  and  the  gold  velvet  of  the  dandelion  shines  wherever 
it  will,  from  the  fence  close  beneath  the  window  sending  up  its 
bitter  fragrance  out  of  dew,  while  sheaves  of  green  phlox  stand 
here  and  there,  which  in  their  time  will  be  topped  with  crimson 
blossoms. 

The  windows  are  hung  with  snowy  curtains,  and  in  one  that 
fronts  the  sun,  is  hung  a  bird-cage,  with  an  inmate  chattering 
as  wildly  as  though  his  wings  were  free.  A  blue  wreath  of 
smoke,  pleasantly  suggestive,  is  curling  upward  just  now,  and 
drifting  southward  from  the  tall  kitchen  chimney,  and  Jenny 
Mitchel,  the  young  housewife,  as  I  guess,  is  baking  pies.  No¬ 
thing  becomes  her  chubby  hands  so  well  as  the  moulding  of 
pastry,  and  her  cheerful  singing,  if  we  were  near  enough  to 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


15 


hear  it,  would  attest  that  nothing  makes  her  more  happy.  And 
well  may  she  sing  and  be  happy,  for  the  rosy-faced  baby  sits 
up  in  his  white  willow  cradle,  and  crows  back  to  her  lullaby ; 
and  by  and  by  the  honest  husband  will  come  from  healthful 
labor,  and  her  handiwork  in  flour  and  fruit  and  sugar  and  spice, 
will  be  sure  of  due  appreciation  and  praise. 

Nowhere  among  all  the  suburban  gardens  of  this  basin 
rimmed  with  hills,  peeps  from  beneath  its  sheltering  trees  a 
cozier  home.  They  are  plain  and  common-sense  people  who 
dwell  here,  vexed  with  no  indistinct  yearnings  for  the  far  off 
and  the  unattained — weighed  down  with  no  false  appreciation, 
blind  to  all  good  that  is  not  best — oppressed  with  no  misan¬ 
thropic  fancies  about  the  world — nor  yet  affected  with  spasmodic 
decisions  that  their  great  enemy  should  not  wholly  baffle  them ; 
no !  the  great  world  cares  nothing  about  them,  and  they  as 
little  for  the  great  world,  which  has  no  power  by  its  indiffer¬ 
ence  to  wound  the  heart  of  either,  even  for  a  moment.  Helph. 
Randall,  the  sturdy  blacksmith,  whose  forge  is  aglow  before  the 
sunrise,  and  rosy-cheeked  Jenny,  his  blue-eyed  wife,  though  she 
sometimes  remembers  the  shamrock  and  sighs,  have  no  such 
pains  concealed. 

But  were  they  always  thus  contented  ?  Did  they  cross  that 
mysterious  river,  whose  course  never  yet  run  smooth,  without 
any  trial  and  tribulation,  such  as  most  voyagers  on  its  bosom 
have  encountered  since  the  world  began — certainly  since  Jacob 
served  seven  years  for  Rachel  and  was  then  put  off  with  Leah, 
and  obliged  to  serve  other  seven  for  his  first  love?  We  shall 
see  :  and  this  brings  me  back  to  one  of  those  many  Fridays  I 
have  spoken  of.  I  am  not  sure  but  I  must  turn  another  leaf 
and  begin  with  Thursday--yes,  I  have  the  time  now,  it  was  a 
Thursday.  It  was  as  bright  an  afternoon  as  ever  turned  the 
green  swaths  into  gray,  or  twinkled  against  the  shadows  stretch¬ 
ing  eastward  from  the  thick-rising  haycocks. 


16 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


II. 

It  was  early  in  July,  when  the  bitter  of  the  apples  began  to 
grow  sweet,  and  their  sunward  sides  a  little  russet ;  when  the 
chickens  ceased  from  peeping  and  following  the  parent  hen, 
and  began  to  scratch  hollows  in  garden  beds,  and  to  fly  suddenly 
upon  fences  or  into  trees,  and  to  crow  and  cackle  with  un¬ 
practised  throats,  as  though  they  were  well  used  to  it,  and 
cared  not  who  heard  them,  for  which  disagreeable  habits  their 
heads  were  now  and  then  brought  to  the  block.  Blackberries 
were  ripening  in  the  hedges,  and  the  soft  silk  was  swaying 
beneath  the  tassels  of  the  corn. 

Such  was  the  season  when,  one  day,  just  after  dinner,  Mrs. 
Wetherbe  came  to  pass  the  afternoon,  and,  as  she  said,  to  kill 
two  birds  with  one  stone,  by  securing  a  passage  to  the  city 
on  the  morrow  in  my  father’s  wagon — for  many  were  the  old 
ladies,  and  young  ones  too,  who  availed  themselves  of  a  like 
privilege.  Of  course  it  was  a  pleasure  for  us  to  accommodate 
her,  and  not  the  less,  perhaps,  that  it  was  a  favor  she  had  never 
asked  before,  and  was  not  likely  to  ask  again. 

She  was  a  plain  old  lady,  whom  to  look  at  was  to  know — 
good  and  simple-hearted  as  a  child.  She  was  born  and  had 
been  bred  in  the  country,  and  was  thoroughly  a  country  woman ; 
her  high  heeled  and  creaking  calf-skin  shoes  had  never  trodden 
beyond  the  grass  of  her  own  door-yard  more  than  once  or  twice, 
for  even  a  friendly  tea-drinking  with  a  neighbor  was  to  her  a 
matter  of  not  more  than  biennial  occurrence.  And  on  the  day 
I  speak  of  she  seemed  to  feel  mortified  that  she  should  spend 
two  consecutive  days  like  a  gad-about — in  view  of  which  ne¬ 
cessity  feeling  bound  in  all  self-respect  to  offer  apologies. 

In  the  first  place,  she  had  not  for  six  years  been  to  visit  her 
niece,  Mrs.  Emeline  Randall,  who  came  to  her  house  more  or 
less  every  summer,  and  really  felt  slighted  and  grieved  that 
her  visits  were  never  returned.  So  Mrs.  Randall  expressed 
herself,  and  so  Mrs.  Wetherbe  thought,  honest  old  lady  as  she 
was!  and  so  it  seemed  now  as  though  she  must  go  and  see 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


17 


Emelin e,  notwithstanding  she  would  just  as  soon,  she  said,  put 
her  head  in  a  hornet’s  nest,  any  time,  as  go  to  town ;  for  she 
regarded  its  gayeties  and  fashions — and  all  city  people,  in  her 
opinion,  were  gay  and  fashionable — as  leading  directly  toward 
the  kingdom  of  the  Evil  One.  Therefore  it  was,  as  I  conceive, 
quite  doubtful,  whether  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  visiting  her 
amiable  niece,  Mrs.  Wetherbe  would  have  entered  the  city 
limits. 

She  wanted  some  cap  stuff  and  some  home-made  linen,  if 
such  things  were  to  be  procured  in  these  degenerate  days,  though 
if  she  only  had  the  flax  she  could  spin  and  weave  the  linen 
herself,  old  as  she  was,  and  would  not  be  caught  running  about 
town  to  buy  it ;  for,  if  she  did  say  it,  she  was  worth  more  than 
half  the  girls  now  at  work ;  and  no  one  who  saw  how  fast  her 
brown  withered  fingers  flew  round  the  stocking  she  was  knitting, 
would  have  doubted  it  at  all. 

“Nothing  is  fit  for  the  harvest-field  but  homespun  linen,” 
said  Mrs.  Wetherbe,  “and  if  Wetherbe  don’t  have  it  he’ll  be 
nigh  about  sick,  and  I  may  jest  as  well  go  fust  as  last,  for  he 
won’t  hear  to  my  spinning,  sence  I  am  sixty  odd ;  he  says  he 
don’t  like  the  buz  of  the  wheel,  but  to  me  there’s  no  nicer 
music.” 

The  last  trowsers  of  her  own  making  were  worn  out,  and 
along  for  several  days  past  her  good  man  had  then  been  obliged 
to  wear  cloth  ones ;  which  fact  was  real  scandalous  in  the  good 
woman’s  estimation,  and  in  this  view  it  certainly  was  time  she 
should  bestir  herself,  as  she  proposed. 

Moreover,  she  had  one  or  two  other  errands  that  especially 
induced  her  to  go  to  town.  A  black  calico  dress  she  must  have, 
as  she  had  worn  the  old  one  five  years,  and  now  wanted  to  cut 
it  up  and  put  it  in  a  quilt,  for  she  always  intended  it  to  jine 
some  patchwork  she’d  had  on  hand  a  long  time,  and  now  she 
was  going  to  do  it,  and  make  a  quilting  party,  and  have  the 
work  all  done  at  once.  I,  of  course,  received  then  and  there 
the  earliest  invitation. 

This  was  years  ago,  and  the  fashion  of  such  parties  has  long 
since  passed  away,  but  in  due  time  I  will  tell  you  about  this, 


18 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


as  you  may  never  have  an  opportunity  of  participating  in  such 
a  proceeding. 

Perhaps  you  may  have  seen  persons,  certainly  I  have,  who 
seem  to  feel  called  on,  from  some  feeling  of  obligation  I  do  not 
understand,  to  offer  continual  apologies  for  whatever  they  do, 
or  propose  to  do.  It  was  so  with  good  Mrs.  Wetherbe,  and 
after  the  announcement  of  this  prospective  frolic,  she  talked  a 
long  chapter  of  whys  and  wherefores,  after  this  wise. 

William  Helphenstein  Randall,  Emeline’s  oldest  son,  had 
been  living  at  her  house  three  or  four  years,  and  he  had  teased, 
month  in  and  month  out,  to  have  a  wood-chopping  and  quilting, 
some  afternoon,  and  a  regular  play  party  in  the  evening;  and 
he  had  done  so  many  good  turns  for  her,  that  it  seemed  as  if  a 
body  could  hardly  get  round  it  without  seeming  reel  disoblee- 
gin’ ;  and  though  she  didn’t  approve  much  of  such  worldly 
carryings  on,  she  thought  for  once  she  would  humor  Helph  ; 
and  then,  too,  they  would  get  wood  prepared  for  winter,  and 
more  or  less  quilting  done — for  “  though  on  pleasure  she  was 
bent,  she  was  of  frugal  mind.” 

I  remarked  that  I  was  under  an  impression  that  Mr.  Randall 
was  a  man  of  property,  and  asked  if  Helph  was  out  of  college. 

“Why,  bless  your  heart,  no,”  said  Mrs.  Wetherbe,  “he 
was  never  in  a  college,  more’n  I  be  this  minute ;  his  father  is 
as  rich  as  Cresus,  but  his  children  got  all  their  lamin’  in  free 
schools,  pretty  much;  Helph  hasn’t  been  to  school  this  ten 
years  a’most,  I  guess.  Let  me  see  :  he  was  in  a  blacksmith’s 
shop  sartainly  two  or  three  years  before  he  come  to  my  house, 
and  he  isn’t  but  nineteen  now,  so  he  must  have  been  tuck  from 
school  airly.  The  long  and  short  on’t  is,”  continued  the  old 
lady,  making  her  knitting-needles  fly  again,  “  Emeline,  poor 
gal,  has  got  a  man  that  is  reel  clos’t,  and  the  last  time  I  was 
there  I  most  thought  he  begrudged  me  my  victuals ;  but  I  was 
keerful  to  take  butter  and  garden-sass,  and  so  on,  enough  to 
pay  for  all  I  got.”  And  she  dropped  her  work,  she  was  so  ex¬ 
asperated,  for  though  economical  and  saving  in  all  ways,  she 
was  not  meanly  stingy.  She  had  chanced  to  glide  into  a  com¬ 
municative  mood,  by  no  means  habitual  to  her,  and  the  per¬ 
spiration  stood  in  drops  on  her  forehead,  and  her  little  black 


MRS.  WETHERBE'S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


19 


eyes  winked  with  great  rapidity  for  a  minute,  before  she  added, 
“  And  that  ain’t  the  worst  on’t  neither,  he  is  often  in  drink,  and 
sich  times  he  gits  the  Old  Clooty  in  him  as  big  as  a  yearlin’ 
heifer  !” 

“  Ay,  I  understand,”  I  said,  “  and  that  is  why  Helph  happens 
to  live  with  you.” 

“Yes,”  said  Mrs.  Wetherbe,  resuming  her  knitting,  “that’s 
why,  and  it’s  the  why  of  a  good  many  other  things ;  I  don’t 
know  as  I  ought  to  talk  of  things  that  are  none  of  my  business, 
as  you  may  say,  but  my  temper  gits  riled  and  a’most  biles 
over  the  pot,  when  I  think  of  some  things  Jinny  Mitchel  has 
telled  me :  she’s  their  adopted  darter,  you  know ;  but  that 
speaking  of  the  pot  reminds  me  that  I  broke  my  little  dinner 
pot  last  week,  and  if  there  will  be  room  for  it  I  want  to  kerry  it 
along  and  get  a  new  leg  put  in.  And  so  you  see,”  she  con¬ 
cluded,  “  I  have  arrants  enough  to  take  me  to  town  and  she 
wiped  her  spectacles,  preparatory  to  going  home,  saying  the 
glasses  were  too  young  for  her,  and  she  must  get  older  ones  to¬ 
morrow,  and  that  was  one  of  the  most  urgent  things,  in  fact, 
that  took  her  to  the  city.  Having  promised  that  1  would  ac¬ 
company  her,  to  select  the  new  dress,  and  dine  with  Mrs. 
Randall,  she  took  leave,  with  an  assurance  of  being  ready  at 
six  o’clock  in  the  morning,  so  as  not  to  detain  us  a  grain  or 
morsel. 


III. 

When  morning  began  to  redden  over  the  eastern  stars,  our 
household  was  astir,  and  while  we  partook  of  an  early  break¬ 
fast,  the  light  wagon,  which  was  drawn  by  two  smart  young 
bays,  was  brought  to  the  door.  Baskets,  jugs,  and  other  things, 
were  imbedded  among  the  straw,  with  which  our  carriage  was 
plentifully  supplied,  and  a  chair  was  placed  behind  the  one  scat, 
for  my  accommodation,  as  Mrs.  Wetherbe  was  to  occupy  the 
place  beside  my  father.  I  have  always  regarded  the  occupancy 
of  the  chair,  on  that  occasion,  as  an  example  of  self-sacrifice 
which  I  should  not  like  to  repeat,  however  beautiful  in  theory 
may  be  the  idea  of  self-abnegation.  But  I  cannot  hope  that 


20 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


others  will  appreciate  this  little  benevolence  of  mine,  unless 
they  have  ridden  eight  or  more  miles,  in  an  open  wagon,  and 
on  a  chair  slipping  from  side  to  side,  and  jolting  up  and  down, 
behind  two  coltish  trotters,  and  over  roads  that  for  a  part  of 
the  time  kept  one  wheel  in  the  gutter  and  one  in  the  air. 

But  I  must  leave  to  the  imagination  the  ups  and  downs  of 
this  particular  epoch  of  my  life.  Still  one  star  stood,  large  and 
white,  above  the  hills,  but  the  ground  of  crimson  began  to  be 
dashed  with  gold  when  we  set  forward. 

Notwithstanding  the  “  rough,  uneven  ways,  which  drew  out 
the  miles,  and  made  them  wearisome,”  these  goings  to  the  city 
are  among  the  most  delightful  recollections  of  my  life.  They 
were  to  my  young  vision  openings  of  the  brightness  of  the 
world ;  and  after  the  passage  of  a  few  years,  with  their  ex¬ 
periences,  the  new  sensations  that  freshen  and  widen  the  at¬ 
mosphere  of  thought  are  very  few  and  never  so  bright  as  I  had 
then. 

Distinctly  fixed  in  my  mind  is  every  house — its  color  and 
size,  and  the  garden  walks  and  trees  with  which  it  was  surround¬ 
ed,  and  by  which  the  roadsides  between  our  homestead  and 
that  dim  speck  we  called  the  city,  were  adorned;  and  nothing 
would  probably  seem  to  me  now  so  fine  as  did  the  white  walls, 
and  smooth  lawns,  and  round-headed  gate-posts,  which  then 
astonished  my  unpractised  eyes. 

Early  as  we  were,  we  found  Mrs.  Wetherbe  in  waiting  at  her 
gate,  long  before  reaching  which  the  fluttering  of  her  scarlet 
merino  shawl,  looking  like  the  rising  of  another  morning,  ap¬ 
prised  us  of  our  approach  to  it. 

She  had  been  nigh  about  an  hour  watching  for  us,  she  said, 
and  was  just  going  into  the  house  to  take  off  her  things,  when 
she  saw  the  heads  of  the  horses  before  a  great  cloud  of  dust ; 
and  though  she  couldn’t  see  the  color  of  the  wagon,  nor  a  sign 
of  the  critters,  to  tell  whether  they  were  black  or  white,  she 
knew  right-a-way  that  it  was  our  team,  for  no  body  else  druv 
such  fine  horses. 

“Here,  Mrs.  Witherbe,  get  right  in,”  said  my  father,  who 
was  fond  of  horses,  and  felt  the  compliment  as  much  as  if 
it  had  been  to  himself;  and  it  was  owing  entirely  to  this  that 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


21 


he  said  Mrs.  Witherbe  instead  of  Mrs.  Wetherbe,  though  I  am 
not  sufficiently  a  metaphysician  to  explain  why  such  cause 
should  have  produced  such  an  effect. 

Helphenstein,  who  was  chopping  wood  at  the  door,  called 
out,  as  we  were  leaving,  “Don’t  forget  to  ask  Jenny  to  come 
to  the  quilting;”  and  Mr.  Wetherbe  paused  from  his  churning, 
beneath  a  cherry-tree,  to  say,  “  Good-bye,  mother ;  be  careful, 
and  not  lose  any  money,  for  it’s  a  hard  thing  to  slip  into  a  pus, 
and  it’s  easy  to  slip  out.” 

The  good  woman  held  up  her  purse — a  little  linen  bag  tied  at 
one  end  with  a  tow  string,  and  pretty  well  distended  at  the 
other — to  assure  the  frugal  husband  she  had  not  lost  it  in 
climbing  into  the  wagon ;  and  having  deposited  it  for  safe  keep¬ 
ing  where  old  ladies  sometimes  stow  away  thread,  thimble, 
beeswax,  and  the  like,  she  proceeded  to  give  us  particular  ac¬ 
counts  of  all  the  moneys,  lost  or  found,  of  which  she  ever  knew 
any  thing,  and  at  last  concluded  by  saying  she  had  sometimes 
thought  her  old  man  a  leetle  more  keerful  than  there  was  any 
need  of;  but,  after  all,  she  didn’t  know  as  he  was;  and  this 
was  just  the  conclusion  any  other  loving  and  true-hearted  wife 
would  have  arrived  at  in  reference  to  any  idiosyncrasy  pertain¬ 
ing  to  her  “  old  man,”  no  matter  what  might,  could,  would  or 
should  be  urged  on  the  contrary. 

One  little  circumstance  of  recent  occurrence  operated  greatly 
in  favor  of  the  carefulness  of  Mr.  Wetherbe,  in  the  mind  of 
his  very  excellent  and  prudent  wife.  Helph  had  lately,  in  a 
most  mysterious  and  unaccountable  manner,  lost  two  shillings 
out  of  his  trowsers  pocket. 

“  It  was  the  strangest  thing  ever  could  have  happened,”  she 
said  :  “  he  was  coming  home  from  town — Helph  was — and  he 
said,  when  he  paid  toll,  he  just  had  two  shillings  left ;  and  he 
put  it  in  the  left  pocket  of  his  trowsers,  he  said ;  he  said  he 
knew  he  had  it  then,  for  just  as  he  rode  up  the  bank  of  the 
creek,  his  horse  stumbled,  and  he  heard  the  money  jingle,  just 
as  plain  as  could  be ;  and  when  he  got  home,  and  went  up  stairs, 
and  went  to  hang  up  his  trowsers  before  he  went  to  go  to  bed, 
he  just  thought  he  would  feel  in  his  pocket,  and  the  money 
wasn’t  there !  He  said  then,  he  thought  he  might  have  been 


22 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


mistaken,  and  so  he  felt  in  the  other  pocket,  he  said,  and 
behold,  it  was  clean  gone !  And  such  things  make  a  body  feel 
as  if  they  could  not  be  too  keerful,”  observed  Mrs.  Wetherbe, 
“  for  you  might  as  well  look  for  a  needle  in  a  haystack,  as  for 
a  dollar  once  lost.  Helph,”  she  added,  “rode  back  the  next 
morning  as  far  as  the  toll-house,  and  though  he  kept  his  eyes 
bent  on  the  ground,  the  search  wasn’t  of  no  use.”  And  she 
suddenly  started,  and  clapped  her  hand,  not  in  her  pocket,  but 
where  she  had  deposited  her  own  purse,  exclaiming,  as  she  did 
so,  “  Mercy  on  us !  I  thought  at  fust  it  was  gone ;  and  I  declare 
for  it,  I  am  just  as  weak  as  a  cat,  now,  and  I  shall  not  get  over 
my  fright  this  whole  blessed  day.” 

“You  are  a  very  nervous  person,”  said  my  father,  and  with 
him  this  was  equivalent  to  saying,  you  are  a  very  foolish  wo¬ 
man  ;  for  he  had  little  patience  with  men  or  women  who  make 
much-ado-about-nothing  ;  and,  venting  his  irritation  by  a  sudden 
use  of  the  whip,  the  horses  started  forward,  and  threw  me  quite 
out  of  my  chair  ;  but  the  straw  prevented  me  from  receiving 
any  injury,  and  I  gained  my  former. position,  while  the  hands 
of  Mrs.  Wetherbe  were  yet  in  consternation  in  the  air. 

This  feat  of  mine,  and  the  laughter  which  rewarded  it,  brought 
back  more  than  the  first  good-humor  of  my  father,  and  he 
reined  in  the  horses,  saying,  “  They  get  over  the  ground  pretty 
smartly,  don’t  they,  Mrs.  Wetherbe'?” 

“  Gracious  sakes  !”  she  replied,  “  how  they  do  whiz  by  things ; 
it  appears  like  they  fairly  fly.”  The  conversation  then  turned 
on  the  march  of  improvement ;  for  we  had  come  to  the  turn¬ 
pike,  and  the  rattling  of  the  wheels,  and  the  sharp  striking-  of 
the  hoofs  on  the  stones,  were  reminders  of  the  higher  civili¬ 
zation  we  were  attaining,  as  well  as  serious  impediments  to  any 
colloquial  enjoyment. 

“A  number  of  buildings  have  gone  up  since  you  were  here,” 
said  my  father,  addressing  the  old  lady. 

“  What  has  gone  up  where '?”  she  answered,  bending  her  ear 
towards  him.  But  failing  to  notice  that  she  did  not  reply  cor¬ 
rectly,  he  continued  :  “  That  is  the  old  place  Squire  Gates  used 
to  own  ;  it  don’t  look  much  as  it  used  to,  does  it  V* 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


23 


“  Yes,  la  me  !  what  a  nice  place  it  is  !  Somewhere  near  old 
Squire  Gates’s,  isn’t  it  ?” 

“Yes,  he  was  an  old  man,”  said  my  father,  “  when  he  owned 
that  place ;  and  near  sixty  when  he  married  his  last  wife,  Polly 

Weaver,  that  was.” 

’  * 

“  Dear  me,  neighbor,  how  we  get  old  and  pass  away !  but  I 
never  heard  of  the  old  man’s  death.  What  kind  of  fever  did 
you  say  he  died  with?” 

“  He  is  dead,  then,  is  he?  Well,  I  believe  he  was  a  pretty 
good  sort  of  man.  I  have  nothing  laid  up  against  him.  Do 
you  know  whether  he  made  a  will  ?” 

“  Who  did  he  leave  it  to  ?”  inquired  the  lady,  still  misappre¬ 
hending.  “  Jeems,  I  believe,  was  his  favorite,  though  I  always 
thought  Danel  the  best  of  the  two.” 

“Well,  I  am  glad  Jeems  has  fared  the  best,”  replied  my 
father ;  “  he  was  the  likeliest  son  the  old  man  had.” 

“  Yes,”  she  said,  vaguely,  for  she  had  not  heard  a  word  this 
time. 

“  What  did  you  say  ?”  asked  my  father,  who  liked  to  have 
his  remarks  answered  in  some  sort. 

The  old  lady  looked  puzzled,  and  said  she  didn’t  say  any 
thing ;  and  after  a  moment  my  father  resumed :  “  Well,  do  you 
know  where  the  old  man  died  ?”  And  in  a  tone  that  seemed 
to  indicate  that  she  didn’t  know  much  of  any  thing,  she  inqui¬ 
red,  “What?”  and  then  continued,  in  a  tone  of  irritation,  “I 
never  saw  a  wagon  make  such  a  terrible  rattletebang  in  my 
born  days.” 

“  I  asked  if  you  knew  where  he  died  ?”  repeated  my  father, 
speaking  very  loud. 

\ 

“  Oh  no,  we  did  hear  once  that  he  had  separated  from  his 
wife,  and  gone  back  to  the  old  place  ;  folks  said  she  wasn’t  any 
better  than  she  should  be  ;  I  don’t  pretend  to  know ;  and  I 
don’t  know  whether  he  died  there,  or  where  he  died.  I  don’t 
go  about  much  to  hear  any  thing,  and  I  didn’t  know  he  was 
dead  till  you  told  me.” 

“Who  told  you?”  asked  my  father,  looking  as  though  she 
would  not  repeat  the  assertion  the  second  time. 


24 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“I  said  I  didn’t  know  it  till  you  told  me,”  she  answered, 
innocently  ;  “  and  I  was  just  about  to  ask  where  he  died.” 

“  The  devil !”  said  my  father,  losing  not  only  all  civility,  but 
all  patience  too ;  “  I  never  told  you  any  such  thing,  Mrs. 
Wetherbe.  I  have  not  seen  you  to  talk  with  you  any  for  a 
number  of  years  till  this  morning,  when  you  told  me  yourself 
that  the  old  man  was  dead ;  and  if  I  had  ever  told  such  a  story, 
I  should  remember  it.” 

“  Why,”  she  interposed,  “  you  will  surely  remember,  when 
you  think  of  it.  It  was  just  after  we  passed  Squire  Gates’s 
house ;  and  the  fever  he  died  with  you  mentioned  too.” 

“  Good  heavens  !  it  was  just  there  you  told  me  ;  and  I  had 
not  heard  till  that  minute  of  his  death.  I  will  leave  it  to  my 
daughter  here,”  he  continued,  turning  to  me,  who,  laughing  at 
these  blunders,  was  shaken  and  jolted  from  side  to  side,  and 
backward  and  forward,  and  up  and  down,  all  the  time. 

At  this  juncture,  a  smart  little  chaise,  drawn  by  a  high¬ 
headed  black  horse,  with  a  short  tail,  approached  from  the 
opposite  direction.  Within  sat  a  white-haired  old  gentleman, 
wearing  gloves  and  ruffles;  and  beside  him,  a  more  youthful 
and  rather  gayly  dressed  lady.  Both  looked  smiling  and 
happy ;  and  as  they  passed,  the  gentleman  bowed  low  to  Mrs. 
Wetherbe  and  my  father. 

“That  is  Squire  Gates  and  his  wife  now  !”  exclaimed  both 
at  once  ;  and  each  continued,  “  It’s  strange  how  you  happened 
to  tell  me  he  was  dead.” 

“  Both  are  right,  and  both  are  wrong,”  said  I,  and  thereupon 
I  explained  their  mutual  misunderstanding,  and  the  slightly  irri¬ 
table  feelings  in  which  both  had  indulged  subsided,  and  ended 
in  hearty  good-humor. 

The  slant  rays  of  the  sun  began  to  struggle  through  the  black 
smoke  that  blew  against  our  faces,  for  the  candle  and  soap 
factories  of  the  suburbs  began  to  thicken,  and  the  bleating  of 
lambs  and  calves  from  the  long,  low  slaughter-houses  which 
ran  up  the  hollows  opposite  the  factories,  made  the  head  sick 
and  the  heart  ache  as  we  entered  city  limits. 

Fat  and  red-faced  butchers,  carrying  long  whips,  and  reining 
in  the  gay  horses  they  bestrode,  met  us,  one  after  another, 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


25 


driving  back  from  the  market  great  droves  of  cattle,  that,  tired 
and  half  maddened,  galloped  hither  and  thither,  lashing  their 
tails  furiously,  and  now  and  then  sharply  striking  their  horns 
against  each  other,  till  they  were  forced  through  narrow  pas¬ 
sages  into  the  hot  and  close  pens — no  breath  of  fresh  air,  nor  a 
draught  of  water  between  them  and  their  doom. 

Now  and  then  a  little  market-cart,  with  empty  boxes  and 
barrels  that  had  lately  been  filled  with  onions,  turnips,  or  rad¬ 
ishes,  went  briskly  by  us :  the  two  occupants,  who  sat  on  a 
board  across  the  front  of  it,  having  thus  early  disposed  of  their 
cargo,  and  being  now  returning  home  to  their  gardens.  Very 
happy  they  looked,  with  the  proceeds  of  their  sales  in  the 
pockets  of  their  white  aprons,  and  not  unfrequently  also  a  calf’s 
head  or  beefs  liver,  half-a-dozen  pigs’  feet,  or  some  similar  deli¬ 
cacy,  to  be  served  up  with  garlics  for  dinner. 

Countrymen  who  had  ridden  to  market  on  horseback,  were 
likewise  already  returning  to  their  farms.  The  basket  which 
had  so  lately  been  filled  with  the  yellow  rolls  of  butter,  and 
covered  with  the  green  b?oad  leaves  of  the  plantain,  was  filled 
now,  instead,  with  tea  and  sugar,  with  perhaps  some  rice  and 
raisins,  and  possibly  a  new  calico  gown  for  the  wife  at  home. 
What  a  pleasant  surprise  when  the  contents  of  the  basket  shall 
be  made  known  !  - 

After  all,  the  independent  yeoman,  with  his  simple  rusticity 
and  healthful  habits,  is  the  happiest  man  in  the  wrorld.  And  as 
I  saw  these  specimens  of  the  class  returning  home,  with  joyous 
faces  and  full  baskets,  I  could  not  help  saying  wThat  all  the 
world  should  knowr,  if  it  be  true,  from  its  having  been  pretty 
frequently  repeated,  “When  ignorance  is  bliss,  ’tis  folly  to  be 
wise. 

“What  is  it,  darter?”  said  Mrs.  Wetherbe,  bending  towards 
me,  for  her  apprehensions  were  not  very  quick. 

“  I  was  saying,”  I  replied,  “that  the  farmers  are  the  happiest 
people  in  the  world.” 

“  Yes,  yes,  they  are  the  happiest,” — her  predilections,  of 
course,  being  in  favor  of  her  own  way  of  living ;  “  it  stands 
to  reason  that  it  hardens  the  heart  to  live  in  cities,  and  makes 
folks  selfish  too.  Look  there,  what  a  dreadful  sight !”  and  she 


26 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


pointed  to  a  cart  filled  with  sheep  and  lambs,  on  the  top  of  which 
were  thrown  two  or  three  calves,  with  their  feet  tied  together, 
and  reaching  upwards,  their  heads  stretched  back,  and  their 
tongues  hanging  out.  “  Really,  the  law  should  punish  such 
wicked  and  useless  cruelty,”  she  said  ;  and  I  thought  and  still 
think  that  Mrs.  Wetherbe  was  not  altogether  wrong. 

Men,  and  the  signs  of  affairs,  began  to  thicken  ;  blacksmiths 
were  beating  iron  over  their  glowing  forges,  carpenters  shov¬ 
ing  the  plane,  and  the  trowel  of  the  mason  ringing  against  the 
bricks.  Men,  women,  and  children  hurried  to  and  fro,  and 
all  languages  were  heard,  and  all  costumes  were  seen,  as  if 
after  a  thousand  generations,  the  races  were  returning  to  be 
again  united  at  Babel. 

“  "What  a  perfect  bedlam  !”  said  Mrs.  Wetherbe ;  “  I  wish  to 
mercy  I  was  ready  to  go  home.  Here,  maybe,  you  had  better 
wait  a  little,”  she  added,  seizing  the  rein,  and  pointing  in  the  di¬ 
rection  of  a  grocery  and  variety  shop,  where  some  crockery  ap¬ 
peared  at  the  window,  and  a  strip  of  red  flannel  at  the  door. 

“  Don’t  you  want  to  go  down  town  V'  said  my  father,  rein¬ 
ing  up. 

“Yes,”  she  replied,  “  but  I  see  some  red  flannel  here,  and  I 
want  to  get  a  few  yards  for  a  pettikit.” 

Having  assured  her  she  could  get  it  anywhere  else  as  well, 
she  consented  to  go  on,  fixing  the  place  in  her  mind,  so  that  she 
could  find  it  again,  if  necessary  ;  and  we  shortly  found  ourselves 
at  Mr.  Randall’s  door. 


IV. 

“We  will  just  go  in  the  back  way,”  said  Mrs.  Wetherbe; 
“  I  don’t  like  to  ring  the  bell,  and  wait  an  hour  ;”  and  accord¬ 
ingly  she  opened  a  side  door,  and  we  found  ourselves  in  the 
breakfast-room,  where  the  family  were  assembled. 

“  Why,  if  it  isn’t  Aunty  Wetherbe  !”  exclaimed  a  tall,  pale- 
faced  woman,  coming  forward  and  shaking  hands.  “  Have  you 
brought  me  something  good  1”  she  added  quickly,  at-the  same 
time  relieving  the  old  lady  of  the  basket  of  nice  butter,  the  jug 
of  milk,  the  eggs,  and  the  loaf  of  home-made  bread,  which  she 


MRS.  WETHERBE'S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


27 


had  brought — partly  from  the  kindness  of  her  heart,  partly  to 
secure  her  welcome.  Thus  relieved  of  her  burdens,  she  went 
forward  to  the  table — for  Mr.  Randall  did  not  rise — and  offered 
her  hand. 

“  Lord-a-mighty,  woman,  I  didn’t  know  you,”  he  said,  in  a 
blustering  way  ;  but  he  evidently  didn’t  wish  to  know  her. 
“  Who  the  devil  have  you  brought  with  you  ?”  referring  to  me, 
with  a  nod  of  the  head,  and  bending  a  pair  of  grayish  blue  eyes 
on  me. 

This  salutation  was  not  particularly  calculated  to  make  me 
feel  happy,  or  at  home,  for  I  was  young  and  timid  ;  but  remov¬ 
ing  myself  from  the  range  of  his  glance,  I  deliberately  surveyed 
the  group,  with  each  of  whom  I  felt  myself  acquainted,  in  a 
moment,  as  well  as  I  wished  to  be  in  my  life  time. 

Mr.  Randall,  having  inquired  who  I  was,  in  the  peculiarly 
civil  manner  I  have  stated,  remarked  to  his  relation,  that  half 
the  town  was  on  his  shoulders,  and  he  must  be  off ;  he  supposed 
also  she  had  enough  to  do  in  her  little  sphere,  and  would  pro¬ 
bably  have  gone  home  before  his  return  to  dinner;  so,  having 
wrung  her  hand,  and  told  her  she  must  come  and  stay  six  months 
at  his  house  some  time,  he  departed,  or  rather  went  in  to  the  ad 
joining  room,  whence  after  a  rattling  of  glasses  and  a  deep-drawn 
breath  or  two,  he  returned,  wiping  his  lips,  and  said  to  the  old 
lady  in  a  quick,  trembling,  querulous  tone,  and  as  though  his 
heart  were  really  stirred  with  anxiety,  “Satan  help  us,  woman  ! 
I  almost  forgot  to  ask  about  my  son — how  is  Helph  ?  how  is 
my  son,  Helph  ?” 

His  paternal  feelings  were  soon  quieted,  and  turning  to  his 
wife,  who  had  resumed  her  seat  at  the  table,  with  hair  in  papers, 
and  dressed  in  a  petticoat  and  short-gown,  he  said,  “  Emeline, 
don’t  hurry  up  the  cakes  too  fast ;  I  don’t  want  dinner  a  minute 
before  three  o’clock,”  and  this  time  he  really  left  the  house. 
Besides  Mrs.  Randall,  there  were  at  the  table  two  little  boys, 
of  ten  and  eight,  perhaps  ;  two  big  boys  of  about  fourteen  and 
sixteen  :  and  a  girl  of  fifteen,  or  thereabouts.  “  Oh,”  said  one 
of  the  larger  boys,  as  if  now  first  aware  of  the  presence  of  his 
aunt,  and  speaking  with  his  mouth  full  of  food,  “  Oh,  Miss  Ma- 
linda  Hoe-the-corn,  how  do  you  do  1  I  didn’t  see  you  before.” 


28 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Of  course  the  good  woman  was  disconcerted,  and  blushed,  as 
perhaps  she  had  not  done  since  her  worthy  husband  asked  her 
if  she  had  any  liking  for  his  name — more  years  ago  than  she 
could  now  remember. 

Observing  this,  the  rude  fellow  continued,  “  Beg  pardon :  I 
thought  it  was  Malinda  Hoe-the-corn,  but  it’s  my  sweetheart, 
Dolly  Anne  Matilda  Steerhorn,  and  she’s  blushing,  head  and 
ears,  to  see  me.”  And  approaching  the  astonished  and  bewil¬ 
dered  woman,  he  began  to  unpin  her  shawl,  which  was  of  an  old 
fashion,  saying,  as  he  attempted  to  pass  his  arm  around  her 
waist,  “  Get  up,  my  love,  and  let’s  have  a  waltz  ;  come,  take  off 
your  hoss-blanket.” 

But  she  held  her  shawl  tightly  with  one  hand,  thrusting  the 
impudent  fellow  away  with  the  other,  as  she  exclaimed,  “  Get 
along  with  you,  you  sassy  scrub !” 

“That  is  right,  Aunty  Wetherbe,”  said  the  mother,  “he  is 
a  great  lubbersides,  and  that  is  just  what  he  is;”  but  she 
laughed  heartily,  and  all  the  group,  with  the  exception  of  the 
little  girl,  seemed  to  think  he  was  behaving  very  funnily ;  and 
in  his  own  estimation  he  was  evidently  displaying  some  very 
brilliant  qualities,  and  had  quite  confounded  a  simple-minded 
old  woman  with  his  abundant  humor,  and  unembarrassed  man¬ 
ners.  “  Well,”  he  continued,  no  whit  disconcerted  by  the  dis¬ 
pleasure  of  his  aunt,  “  I  am  a  business  man,  and  must  leave 
you,  my  dear,  but  I’ll  bring  my  wedding  coat  and  the  parson  to¬ 
night,  and  an  orange  flower  for  you.” 

There  was  now  an  opportunity  for  the  older  brother  to  ex¬ 
hibit  some  of  his  accomplishments,  and  the  occasion  was  not  to 
be  slighted  ;  so,  after  having  inquired  what  news  was  in  the 
country,  how  the  crops  were,  &c.,  he  said,  “  I  am  sorry,  aunt, 
that  I  have  such  a  complication  of  affairs  on  hand  that  I  can’t 
stay  and  entertain  you,  but  so  it  is:  you  must  come  round  to 
my  house  and  see  my  wife  before  you  return  home.” 

“  Mercy  sakes  !”  she  cried,  adjusting  her  spectacles  to  survey 
the  youth,  “  you  can’t  be  married  ?” 

“Why,  yes,”  he  replied,  “haven’t  you  heard  of  it?  and  I 
have  a  boy  six  munts  old  !” 

“  Well,  I’d  never  have  thought  it;  but  you  have  grown  all 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


29 


out  of  my  knowledge,  and  I  can  hardly  tell  which  one  you  he  ; 
in  fact,  I  would  not  have  known  you  if  1  had  met  you  any  place 
else ;  and  yet  I  can  see  Emeline’s  looks  in  you.” 

“That  is  what  everybody  says,”  replied  the  youth;  “  I  look 
just  like  my  mammy  ;”  for,  fancying  it  would  seem  boyish  to 
say  mother,  he  addressed  her  in  a  half  mock,  half  serious  way, 
as  “  mammy.” 

“  And  so  you  have  to  go  away  to  your  work,  do  you  ?”  re¬ 
sumed  the  credulous  woman  :  “  what  kind  of  business  are  you 
doing  here 

“  1  am  a  chicken  fancier,”  he  replied  :  “  Got  any  Polands  or 
Shanghais  out  your  way  ?” 

“1  don’t  know,”  answered  Aunt  Wetherbe,  unobservant  of 
the  tittering  about  the  table. 

“  I’d  like  to  get  some  white  bantams  for  my  wife  and  baby 
and  the  facetious  nephew  closed  one  eye  and  fixed  the  other  on 
me. 

“  What  do  you  call  the  baby  ?” 

“  My  wife  wants  to  call  him  for  me,  but  I  don’t  like  my  own 
name,  and  think  of  calling  him  Jim  Crow.” 

“Now  just  get  along  with  you,”  the  mother  said,  “and  no 
more  of  your  nonsense.” 

He  then  began  teasing  his  mammy,  as  he  called  her,  for 
some  money  to  buy  white  kid  gloves,  saying  he  wanted  to  take 
his  girl  to  a  ball.  “  Then  you  have  just  been  imposing  upon 
me,”  said  Mrs.  Wetherbe  ;  to  which  the  scapegrace  replied,  that 
he  hadn’t  been  doing  nothing  shorter  ;  and,  approaching  the 
girl,  who  was  quietly  eating  her  breakfast,  he  continued,  taking 
her  ear  between  his  thumb  and  finger,  and  turning  her  head  to 
one  side,  “  I  want  you  to  iron  my  ruffled  shirt  fust  rate  and 
particular,  do  you  hear  that,  nigger  waiter?  ” 

After  these  feats  he  visited  the  sideboard,  after  the  example 
of  his  father,  and  having  asked  his  mother  if  she  knew  where 
in  thunder  the  old  man  kept  the  dimes,  adjusted  a  jaunty  cap 
of  shining  leather  to  one  side  and  left  the  house. 

“1  am  glad  you  are  gone,”  said  the  girl,  looking  after  him 
and  speaking  fur  the  first  time. 

“  Come,  come,  you  just  tend  to  your  own  affairs,  Miss  Jenny, 


80 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


and  finish  your  breakfast  some  time  before  noon,”  said  Mrs. 
Randall,  putting  on  a  severe  look. 

“I  had  to  wait  on  the  children  all  the  time  you  were  eating,” 
she  replied,  rising  from  the  table  with  glowing  cheeks. 

“  Oh,  you  had  to  wait  on  great  things  !”  the  woman  said, 
tartly  :  “big  eaters  always  want  some  excuse.” 

Not  till  the  two  little  boys  had  demolished  the  last  remnants 
of  what  seemed  to  have  been  but  a  “  spare  feast  ”  in  the  first 
place,  was  the  bell  rung  for  Aunt  Kitty,  the  colored  woman 
who  presided  over  the  kitchen.  She  was  one  of  those  dear  old 
creatures  whom  you  feel  like  petting  and  calling  “  mammy” 
at  once.  She  was  quiet,  and  a  good  heart  shone  out  over  her 
yellow  face,  and  a  cheerful  piety  pervaded  her  conversation. 
She  retained  still  the  softness  of  manner  and  cordial  warmth 
of  feeling  peculiar  to  the  South ;  and  added  to  this  was  the 
patient  submission  that  never  thought  of  opposition. 

She  had  lived  nearly  fifty  years,  and  most  of  them  had  been 
passed  in  hard  labor  ;  but  notwithstanding  incessant  toil,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  she  was  still  pretty.  True,  she  possessed 
few  of  the  attributes  which,  in  the  popular  estimation,  make  up 
beauty ;  neither  symmetry  of  proportions,  fairness  of  complex¬ 
ion,  nor  that  crowning  grace  of  womanhood,  long,  heavy,  and 
silken  tresses.  No,  her  face  was  of  a  bright  olive,  and  her  hair 
was  concealed  by  a  gorgeous  turban,  and  I  suspect  more  beau¬ 
tiful  thus  concealed,  but  her  teeth  were  sound,  and  of  sparkling 
whiteness,  and  her  eyes  black  as  night,  and  large,  but  instead 
of  an  arrowy,  of  a  kind  of  tearful  and  reproachful  expression  ; 
indeed,  in  all  her  face  there  was  that  which  would  have  seemed 
reproachful,  but  for  the  sweetly-subduing  smile  that  played 
over  it.  She  was  short  and  thick-set,  and  as  for  her  dress,  I 
can  only  say  it  was  cleanly,  for  in  other  respects  it  was  like 
that  of  the  celebrated  priest  who  figures  in  the  nursery  rhyme, 
“all  tattered  and  torn.”  As  for  her  slippers,  they  had  evi¬ 
dently  never  been  made  for  her,  and  in  all  probability  were 
worn  out  before  they  came  into  her  possession  ;  but  her  feet 
were  generally  concealed  by  the  long  skirt  of  her  dress,  a 
morning  wrapper  of  thin  white  muslin,  past  the  uses  of  her 
mistress,  who,  be  it  known,  gave  nothing  away  which  by  any 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


31 


possibility  could  be  of  service  to  herself.  To  adapt  it  to  her 
work,  Aunt  Kitty  had  shortened  the  sleeves  and  tucked  up  the 
skirt  with  pins  ;  but  the  thinness  of  the  fabric  revealed  the 
bright  red  and  blue  plaids  of  the  worsted  petticoat,  making  her 
appearance  somewhat  fantastic.  Courtesying  to  us  gracefully 
as  she  entered  the  breakfast-room,  she  proceeded  to  remove 
the  dishes. 

“  Why  don’t  you  take  a  bite  first  yourself1?”  asked  Mrs. 
Randall. 

“  No  matter  about  me,”  she  said  ;  “  I  want  to  guv  these  la¬ 
dies  a  cup  of  coffee — they  are  come  away  from  the  country,  and 
must  feel  holler-like — thank  de  Lord,  we  can  ’suscitate  ’em 
and  with  a  monument  of  dishes  in  her  hands  she  was  leaving 
the  room,  when  Mrs.  Randall  asked,  in  no  very  mild  tones,  if 
she  considered  herself  mistress  of  the  house ;  and  if  not,  di¬ 
rected  her  to  wait  till  she  had  directions  before  she  went  to 
wasting  things  by  preparing  a  breakfast  that  nobody  wanted  ; 
when  turning  to  us,  she  said,  a  little  more  mildly,  but  in  a  way 
that  precluded  our  acceptance,  “  You  breakfasted  at  home,  I 
suppose  ?” 

Poor  Aunt  Kitty  was  sadly  disappointed,  but  consoled  herself 
with  the  hope  that  we  should  return  to  dinner.  Mrs.  Randall, 
however,  said  nothing  about  it. 

Jenny,  a  pretty  rosy-fiiced  Irish  girl,  Mrs.  Randall  told  us  was 
her  adopted  daughter ;  and  certainly  we  should  never  have 
guessed  it,  had  she  failed  of  this  intimation. 

“  I  do  by  her  just  as  I  would  by  my  own  child,”  said  the  lady  ; 

and  for  her  encouragement,  I  give  her  three  shillings  in  money 
every  week  to  buy  what  she  likes.” 

“  You  can  well  afford  it,  she  must  be  a  great  deal  of  help  to 
you,”  Mrs.  Wetherbe  said. 

But  Mrs.  Randall  affirmed  that  she  was  little  assistance  to 
her,  though  she' admitted  that  Jenny  did  all  the  sewing  for  the 
family,  the  chamber-work,  tending  at  the  door,  and  errands. 

From  my  own  observation,  in  a  single  hour,  1  felt  assured 
that  the  girl’s  situation  was  any  thing  but  desirable  :  called  on 
constantly  by  all  the  members  of  the  family  to  do  this  thing  or 
that, — for  having  no  set  tasks,  it  was  thought  she  should  do 


32 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


every  thing,  and  be  responsible  for  all  the  accidents  of  all  the 
departments.  “  Here,  Jenny,”  called  one  of  the  little  boys,  who 
were  no  less  accomplished  in  their  way  than  the  older  brothers, 
“  black  my  shoes,  and  do  it  quick,  too,” — at  the  same  time  throw¬ 
ing  a  pair  of  coarse  brogans  roughly  against  her. 

“  I  haven’t  time,”  she  answered  “  you  must  do  it  yourself.” 

“  That’s  a  great  big  lie,”  said  the  boy ;  and  prostrating  him¬ 
self  on  the  floor,  he  caught  her  skirts  and  held  her  fast,  while  he 
informed  us  that  her  father  was  nobody  but  an  old  drunkard, 
and  her  mother  was  a  washerwoman,  and  that  Jenny  had  better 
look  at  home  before  she  got  too  proud  to  black  shoes. 

“  Let  me  go,”  said  she  ;  “  if  my  father  is  a  drunkard,  yours 
is  no  better,” — and  she  vainly  tried  to  pull  her  dress  away  from 
him,  her  face  burning  with  shame  and  anger  for  the  exposure. 

“Jenny  !”  called  Mrs.  Randall  from  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
“  Come  along  with  you  and  do  your  chamber-work.” 

“Franklin  is  holding  me,  and  won’t  let  me  come,”  she  an¬ 
swered  ;  but  the  woman  repeated  her  order,  saying  she  would 
hear  no  such  stories. 

“  It’s  pretty  much  so !”  called  out  Mrs.  Wetherbe,  “  it’s  pretty 
much  so,  Emeline.”  But  as  she  descended,  the  boy  loosened 
his  hold,  and  of  course  received  no  blame,  and  the  poor  girl  had 
a  slap  on  the  ear  with  on  admonition  to  see  now  if  she  could  do 
her  work. 

“  Sissy,”  said  Aunt  Kitty,  putting  her  head  in  the  door,  “  can’t 
you  just  run,  honey,  and  get  me  a  cent’s  worth  of 'yeast'?” 

Meantime  Mrs.  Wetherbe  had  asked  Jenny  to  pass  a  week  at 
her  house,  assist  in  preparations  for  the  quilting  party  and  en¬ 
joy  it ;  but  she  feared  to  ask  liberty,  and  the  kind  old  woman 
broke  the  matter  to  Mrs.  Randall,  and  I  seconded  the  appeal. 

“  She  has  no  dress  to  wear,”  urged  the  mistress. 

“  Then  she  ought  to  have,”  responded  the  old  lady,  with  spirit. 

“  I  have  money  enough  to  get  one,”  said  Jenny,  bashfully  ; 
“  can’t  I  go  with  these  ladies  and  get  it  V1 

But  Mrs.  Randall  said  she  had  been  idling  away  too  much 
time  to  ask  for  more,  and  she  enumerated  a  dozen  things  that 
should  be  done.  However,  Mrs.  Wetherbe  and  I  combated  the 
decision,  and  volunteered  our  assistance,  so  that  reluctant  per- 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


33 


mission  to  go  out  with  us  was  granted.  Gratitude  opened  Jen¬ 
ny’s  heart,  and  as  we  hastened  our  work  she  confided  to  me 
many  of  her  trials  and  sorrows,  and  I  soon  perceived  that  the 
three  shillings  per  week  made  all  her  compensation,  with  the  ex¬ 
ception  of  now  and  then  an  old  pair  of  gloves  or  a  faded  ribbon, 
cast  off  by  her  mistress.  It  was  true  her  father  was  a  drunkard, 
and  her  mother,  a  poor  weakly  woman,  had  six  children  to  pro¬ 
vide  for.  Jenny  gave  almost  all  her  own  earnings  for  their  sup¬ 
port.  “  They  have  pretended  to  adopt  me  as  a  child,”  she  said, 
“  that  they  may  seem  liberal  to  me  ;  but  I  am,  as  you  see,  an 
underling  and  a  drudge.” 

My  heart  was  pained  for  her  as  I  saw  the  hardness  and  hope¬ 
lessness  of  her  fate  ;  and  when  at  last  she  was  ready  to  go  with 
us,  the  poor  attempt  she  made  to  look  smart  really  had  the  ef¬ 
fect  of  rendering  her  less  presentable  than  before  ;  but  between 
her  palm  and  her  torn  glove  she  had  slipped  two  dollars  in 
small  change,  and  she  was  quite  happy.  Then,  too,  the  new 
dress  should  be  made  in  womanly  fashion,  for  she  was  in  her 
fifteenth  year. 

We  were  just  about  setting  out  when,  with  more  exultation 
than  regret  in  her  tone,  Mrs.  Randall  called  Jenny  to  come  back, 
for  that  her  little  brother  wanted  to  see  her. 

“  Oh  dear  !”  she  said,  turning  away  with  tears  in  her  eyes  ; 
and  in  that  exclamation  there  was  the  death  of  all  her  hopes. 

W  e  soon  saw  how  it  was:  the  miserable  little  wretch  was 
come  for  money,  and  without  a  word,  Jenny  removed  the  glove 
and  gave  him  all. 

“  Don’t  wait  to  blubber,”  said  the  mistress  ;  “  you  have  lost 
time  enough  for  one  day  ;”  and  the  girl  retired  to  exchange  her 
best  dress  and  renew  her  work. 

Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Randall  had  belonged  to  the  poorest  class 
of  people,  and  the  possession  of  wealth  had  increased  or  given 
scope  to  their  natural  meanness,  without  in  the  least  diminishing 
their  vulgarity. 

If  there  be  any  condition  with  whom  I  really  dislike  to  come 
in  contact,  it  is  the  constitutionally  mean  and  base-mannered  who, 
accidentally  or  by  miserly  plodding,  become  rich.  You -need  but  a 
glimpse  of  such  persons,  or  of  their  homes,  to  know  them.  No 


84 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


expenditures  in  laces,  silks,  jewelry,  costly  carpets,  or  rare 
woods,  can  remove  them  one  hand’s  breadth  from  their  proper 
position  ;  and  the  proper  position  of  the  Randalls  was  that  of  the 
menials  over  whom  their  money  alone  gave  them  supremacy. 

We  were  a  long  time  in  getting  through  our  many  errands, 
for  Mrs.  Wetherbe  was  detained  not  a  little  in  surprise  or  ad¬ 
miration  at  this  or  that  novelty.  When  a  funeral  passed,  she 
could  not  think  who  could  be  dead,  and  essayed  all  her  powers 
to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  coffin,  that  she  might  know  whether  it 
were  a  child  or  an  adult ;  or  if  a  horseman  cantered  past,  she  gazed 
after  him,  wondering  if  he  was  not  going  for  the  doctor,  and  if 
he  was,  who  in  the  world  could  be  sick ;  and  then,  she  selected 
little  samples  of  goods  she  wdshed  to  purchase,  and  carried  them 
up  to  Emeline’s,  to  determine  whether  they  would  wash  well ; 
but  notwithstanding  her  frugality  and  cautiousness,  she  was  not 
mean  ;  and  she  lightened  her  purse  on  Jenny’s  behalf  to  the 
amount  of  the  stuff  for  a  pretty  new  dress.  But  she  could  not 
be  spared  for  a  week,  and  it  was  agreed  that^Helph  should  be 
sent  to  bring  her  on  the  day  of  the  quilting;  and  so,  between 
smiles  and  tears,  we  left  her. 

Alas  for  Aunt  Kitty  !  nothing  could  alleviate  her  disappoint¬ 
ment  :  she  had  prepared  dinner  with  special  reference  to  us,  and 
we  had  not  been  there  to  partake  of  it,  or  to  praise  her.  “  Poor 
souls  !  de  Lord  help  you,”  she  said  ;  you  will  be  starved  a’most !” 

Mrs.  Randall  was  sorry  dinner  was  over,  but  she  never  thought 
of  getting  hungry  when  she  was  busy. 

It  was  long  after  nightfall  when,  having  left  our  friend  and  her 
various  luggage  at  her  own  home,  we  arrived  at  ours ;  and  we 
had  earned  excellent  appetites  for  the  supper  that  waited  us. 

V: 

That  going  to  town  by  Mrs.  Wetherbe,  as  I  have  intimated, 
was  chiefly  with  a  view  to  purchases  in  preparation  for  the  pro¬ 
posed  quilting  party  and  wood-chopping.  Not  only  did  we  select 
calico  for  the  border  of  the  quilt,  with  cotton  batting  and  spool 
thread,  but  we  also  procured  sundry  niceties  for  the  supper, 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


35 


among  which  I  remember  a  jug  of  Orleans  molasses,  half  a 
pound  of  ground  ginger,  five  pounds  of  cheese,  and  as  many 
pounds  of  raisins.  Mrs.  Wetherbe  had  never  made  a  “  frolic” 
before,  she  said,  and  now  she  wouldn’t  have  the  name  of  being 
near  about  it,  let  it  cost  what  it  would.  And  great  excitement 
ran  through  all  the  neighborhood  so  soon  as  it  was  known  what 
she  had  been  about,  and  rumor  speedily  exaggerated  the  gallon 
of  molasses  into  a  dozen  gallons,  the  raisins  into  a  keg,  and  so 
on.  Many  thought  it  was  not  very  creditable  in  a  “professor” 
to  have  such  carryings  on  ;  some  wondered  where  she  would  find 
any  body  in  Clovernook  good  enough  to  ask  ;  others  supposed 
she  would  have  all  her  company  from  the  city  ;  and  all  agreed 
that  if  she  was  going  to  have  her  “  big-bug”  relations,  and  do 
her  “great  gaul,”  she  might,  for  all  of  them.  The  wonder  was 
that  she  didn’t  make  a  party  of  “  whole  cloth,”  and  not  stick  her 
quilt  in  at  all. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  surmising  and  debating  likewise  as 
to  the  quilt  itself ;  and  some  hoped  it  was  a  little  nicer  than  any 
patchwork  they  had  seen  of  Mrs.  Wetherbe’s  making.  But  this 
unamiable  disposition  gradually  gave  way  when  it  was  known 
that  the  frolic  would  embrace  a  wood-chopping  as  well  as  a  quilt¬ 
ing — “  for  surely,”  said  they,  “  she  don’t  expect  chaps  from 
town  to  cut  wood  !” 

The  speculation  concerning  the  quilt  began  to  decline  ;  what 
matter  whether  it  were  to  be  composed  of  stars  or  stripes,  “  ris¬ 
ing  suns,”  or  “  crescents  V’  Mrs.  Wetherbe  knew  her  own  busi¬ 
ness  of  course,  and  those  who  had  at  first  hoped  they  would  not 
be  invited,  because  they  were  sure  they  would  not  go  if  they 
wrere,  wavered  visibly  in  their  stout  resolves. 

From  one  or  two  families  in  which  the  greatest  curiosity 
reigned,  were  sent  little  girls  and  boys,  whose  ostensible  objects 
were  the  borrowing  of  a  darning-needle  or  a  peck  measure  from 
the  harmless  family  who  had  become  the  centre  of  interest, 
but  their  real  errands  were  to  see  what  they  could  see.  So  the 
feeling  of  asperity  was  gradually  mollified,  as  reports  thus  ob¬ 
tained  circulation  favoring  the  neighborly  and  democratic  char¬ 
acter  hitherto  borne  by  the  Wetherbes.  At  one  time  the  good 
old  lady  was  found  with  her  sleeves  rolled  back,  mixing  bread, 


36 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


as  she  used  to  do  ;  and  invariably  she  inquired  of  the  little 
spies  how  affairs  were  going  forward  at  their  homes.  After 
all,  the  neighbors  began  to  think  the  quilting  was  not  going  to 
be  any  such  great  things  more  than  other  quiltings.  For 
myself,  I  understood  the  whole  subject  pretty  well  from  the 
beginning. 

One  morning  as  I  looked  up  from  the  window  where  I  sat,  I 
saw  Helphenstein  Randall  approaching,  and  at  once  divined  his 
errand.  He  was  mounted  on  Mr.  Wetherbe’s  old  roan  mare, 
and  riding  a  side-saddle  ;  and  he  .was  in  excellent  spirits  too,  as 
I  judged  from  his  having  the  ragged  rim  of  his  hat  turned  up 
jauntily  in  front,  and  from  his  goading  the  beast  with  heels  and 
bridle-rein ;  but  not  a  whit  cared  the  ancient  mare  ;  with  youth 
she  had  lost  her  ambition,  and  now  she  moved  in  slow  and  grace¬ 
less  way,  her  neck  bent  downward,  and  her  nose  greatly  in  ad¬ 
vance  of  her  ears.  Half  an  hour  afterwards  I  was  on  the  way  to 
assist  in  preparations  for  the  approaching  festivities.  But  I  was 
only  a  kind  of  secondary  maid  of  honor,  for  foremost  on  all  oc¬ 
casions  of  this  kind  was  Ellen  Blake,  and  in  this  present  in¬ 
stance  she  had  preceded  me.  and  with  hair  in  papers,  and  sleeves 
and  skirt  tucked  up,  she  came  forth  in  an  at-home-attire,  mis- 
tress-of-the-house  fashion,  to  welcome  me — a  privilege  she  al¬ 
ways  assumed  toward  every  guest  on  such  occasions. 

In  truth,  Ellen  really  had  a  genius  for  managing  the  affairs 
of  other  people,  and  for  the  time  being  she  felt  almost  always  the 
same  interest  in  whatever  was  being  done  as  though  it  were  al¬ 
together  an  affair  of  her  own.  She  was  also  thought,  in  her 
neighborhood,  which  was  a  sort  of  suburb  of  Clovernook,  a  full 
quarter  of  the  way  to  the  city,  to  be  very  good  company,  and 
it  is  no  wonder  that  her  services  were  much  in  demand.  Very 
ambitious  about  her  work  was  Ellen,  and  few  persons  could  get 
through  with  more  in  a  day  than  she ;  in  fact  there  are  few  more 
faultless  in  nearly  every  respect ;  nevertheless,  there  was  one  ob¬ 
jection  which  some  of  the  most  old-fashioned  people  urged  against 
her — she  w\as  dressy,  and  it  was  rumored  just  now  that  she  had 
got  a  new  “  flat,”  trimmed  as  full  as  it  could  stick  of  blue  ribbons 
and  red  artificial  flowers,  and  also  a  white  dress,  flounced  half 
wray  up  to  the  skirt. 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


37 


Already  the  quilt  was  in  the  frames  and  laid  out,  as  the  mark¬ 
ing  was  called,  the  chamber  was  ready  for  the  guests,  and  Ellen 
said  she  thought  she  had  been  pretty  smart — if  she  did  say  it 
herself. 

“  I  wanted  to  take  the  bed  out  of  my  front  room  and  have 
the  quilting  there,”  Mrs.  Wetherbe  observed,  “but  this  head¬ 
strong  piece  (pointing  to  Ellen)  wouldn’t  hear  of  it.” 

“No,  indeed,”  replied  the  girl;  “it  would  have  been  the 
greatest  piece  of  presumption  in  the  world  ;  la,  me  !  if  we  young 
folks  cut  up  as  we  do  sometimes,  we’d  have  that  nice  carpet  in 
doll-rags,  and  then  the  work  of  taking  down  and  putting  up  the 
bedstead — all  for  nothing,  as  you  may  say.” 

I  fully  agreed  that  Ellen  had  made  the  wisest  arrangement. 
The  chamber  was  large,  covering  an  area  occupied  by  three  rooms 
on  the  ground  floor;  and  being  next  to  the  roof,  the  quilt  could 
be  conveniently  attached  to  the  rafters  by  ropes,  and  thus  drawn 
up  out  of  the  way  in  case  it  were  not  finished  before  nightfall. 
The  ceilings  were  unplastered,  and  on  either  *  side  sloped  within 
a  few  feet  of  the  floor,  but  the  gable  windows  admitted  a  suf¬ 
ficiency  of  light,  and  there  was  neither  carpet  nor  furniture  in  the 
way,  except,  indeed,  the  furnishing  which  Ellen  had  contrived  for 
the  occasion,  consisting  chiefly  of  divans,  formed  of  boards  and 
blocks,  which  were  cushioned  with  quilts  and  the  like.  Besides 
these,  there  were  two  or  three  barrels  covered  over  with  table¬ 
cloths  and  designed  to  serve  as  hat-stands.  There  was  no  other 
furniture,  unless  the  draperies,  formed  of  petticoats  and  trow- 
sers,  here  and  there  suspended  from  pegs,  might  be  regarded  as. 
entitled  to  be  so  distinguished. 

The  rafters  were  variously  garnished,  with  bags  of  seeds, 
bunches  of  dried  herbs,  and  hanks  of  yarn,  with  some  fine  spe¬ 
cimens  of  extra  large  corn,  having  the  husks  turned  back  from 
the  yellow  ears  and  twisted  into  braids,  by  which  it  was  hung 
for  preservation  and  exhibition.  One  more  touch  our  combined 
ingenuity  gave  the  place,  on  the  morning  of  the  day  guests 
were  expected,  and  this  consisted  of  festoons  of  green  boughs 
and  of  flowers. 

'While  we  were  busy  with  preparations  in  the  kitchen,  the  day 
following  my  arrival,  Mrs.  Randall  suddenly  made  her  appear- 


88 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


ance,  wearing  a  faded  dress,  an  old  straw  bonnet,  and  bearing  in 
one  hand  a  satchel,  and  in  the  other  an  empty  basket. 

“  Hi  ho  !  what  brought  you,  mother'?”  exclaimed  Helph,  who 
was  watching  our  progress  in  beating  eggs,  weighing  sugar, 
crushing  spices,  &c.  ;  and  this  question  was  followed  with 
“  Where  is  Jenny  ?”  and  “  How  did  you  cornel” 

We  soon  learned  that  she  had  arrived  in  a  market  wagon,  for 
the  sake  of  economy  ;  that  her  basket  was  to  carry  home  eggs, 
butter,  apples,  and  whatever  she  could  get ;  and  that,  though 
she  proposed  to  assist  us,  she  would  in  fact  disconcert  our  ar¬ 
rangements,  and  mar  our  happiness.  Jenny  was  left  at  home 
to  attend  the  house,  while  she  herself  recruited  and  enjoyed  a 
little  pleasuring. 

No  sooner  had  she  tied  on  one  of  Mrs.  Wetherbe’s  checked 
aprons  and  turned  back  her  sleeves,  than  our  troubles  began ; 
of  course  she  knew  better  than  we  how  to  manage  every  thing,  and 
the  supper  would  not  do  at  all,  unless  prepared  under  her  direc¬ 
tion.  We  were  glad  when  Mrs.  Wetherbe  said,  “  Too  many 
cooks  spoil  the  broth,  and  I  guess  the  girls  better  have  it  their 
own  way.”  But  Mrs.  Randall  was  not  to  be  dissuaded  ;  she 
had  come  to  help,  and  she  was  sure  she  would  rather  be  doing  a 
little  than  not.  She  gave  accounts  of  all  the  balls,  dinners,  and 
suppers,  at  which  she  had  been,  and  tried  to  impress  us  with  the 
necessity  of  having  our  country  quilting  as  much  in  the  style 
of  them  as  we  could. 

“  We  must  graduate  our  ginger-cakes,”  she  said,  “and  so  form 
a  pyramid  for  the  central  ornament  of  the  table ;  the  butter 
must  be  in  the  shape  of  pineapples,  and  we  must  either  have  no 
meats,  or  else  call  it  a  dinner,  and  after  it  was  eaten,  serve  round 
coffee,  on  little  salvers,  for  which  purpose  we  should  have  pretty 
china  cups.” 

I  knew  right  well  how  ludicrous  it  would  be  to  attempt  the 
twisting  of  Aunt  Wetherbe’s  quilting  and  wood-chopping  into  a 
fashionable  party,  but  I  had  little  eloquence  or  argument  at  com¬ 
mand  with  which  to  combat  the  city  dame’s  positive  assertions 
and  impertinent  suggestions. 

“Have  you  sent  your  notes  of  invitation  yet?”  she  asked. 

“  No,  nor  I  don’t  mean  to  send  no  notes  nor  nothing,”  said 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


39 


the  aunt,  a  little  indignant;  “it  ain’t  like  as  if  the  queen  was 
going  to  make  a  quilting,  I  reckon.” 

But  without  heeding  this  pretty  decisive  answer  Mrs.  Randall 
proceeded  to  remark  that  she  had  brought  out  some  gilt-edged 
paper  and  several  specimen  cards,  among  which  she  thought 
perhaps  the  most  elegant  would  be,  “Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wetherbe 
at  home,”  specifying  the  time,  and  addressed  to  whoever  should 
be  invited.  But  in  vain  this  point  was  urged ;  the  old-fashioned 
aunt  said  she  would  have  no  such  mess  written ;  that  Helph 
might  get  on  his  horse  and  ride  through  the  neighborhood  and 
ask  the  young  people  to  come  to  the  quilting  and  wood-chopping, 
and  that  was  enough. 

There  was  but  one  thing  more  to  vex  us,  while  anticipating 
the  result  of  our  efforts — a  rumor  that  Mrs.  Wetherbe  had  hired 
a  “  nigger  waiter”  for  a  week.  Many  did  not  and  could  not  be¬ 
lieve  it,  but  others  testified  to  the  fact  of  having  seen  the  said 
waiter  with  their  own  eyes. 

With  all  our  combined  forces,  preparations  went  actively 
forward,  and  before  the  appointed  day  every  thing  was  in  readi¬ 
ness — coffee  ground,  tea  ready  for  steeping,  chickens  prepared 
for  broiling,  cakes  and  puddings  baked,  and  all  the  extra  saucers 
filled  with  custards  or  preserves. 

Ellen  stoutly  maintained  her  office  as  mistress  of  the  ceremo¬ 
nies  ;  and  Mrs.  Randall  took  her  place  as  assistant,  so  that  mine 
became  quite  a  subordinate  position,  for  which  I  was  not  sorry, 
as  I  did  not  feel  competent  to  grace  the  elevated  position  at  first 
assigned  me. 

Ilelph  had  once  or  twice  been  warned  by  his  mother  that  Jenny 
would  not  come,  and  that  he  need  not  trouble  himself  to  go  for 
her  ;  but  he  persisted  in,  a  determination  to  bring  her  ;  in  fact 
his  heart  wras  set  on  it ;  and  the  aunt  seconded  his  decision  in 
the  matter,  as  it  was  chiefly  for  Helph  and  Jenny  she  had  de¬ 
signed  the  merry-making,  and  she  could  not  and  would  not  be 
cheated  of  her  darling  purpose. 

“  Well,  have  your  own  way  and  live  the  longer,”  said  the  mo¬ 
ther  ;  to  which  the  son  answered  that  such  was  his  intention ; 
and  accordingly,  having  procured  the  best  buggy  the  neighbor¬ 
hood  afforded,  and  brushed  his  coat  and  hat  with  extra  care,  he 


40 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


set  out  for  the  city,  before  sunrise,  on  the  long  anticipated  day. 
Dinner  was  served  earlier  than  usual,  and  at  one  o’clock  we  were 
all  prepared — Mrs.  Wetherbe  in  the  black  silk  she  had  had  for 
twenty  years,  and  Ellen  in  her  white  flounced  dress,  with  a  comb 
of  enormous,  size,  and  a  wreath  of  flowers  above  her  curls;  but 
when  “Emeline”  made  her  appearance,  neither  our  surprise  nor 
a  feeling  of  indignant  disappointment  could  be  concealed  :  she 
had  appropriated  to  her  own  use  Jenny’s  new  dress,  which'Mrs. 
Wetherbe  had  bought  expressly  for  this  occasion. 

“Now  you  needn’t  scold,  Aunt  Wetherbe,”  she  said;  “it 
was  really  too  pretty  a  thing  for  that  child ;  and  besides,  I  in¬ 
tend  to  get  her  another  before  long.” 

“Humph!”  said  the  old  lady,  “every  bit  and  grain  of  my 
comfort ’s  gone,”  and  removing  her  spectacles  she  continued  si¬ 
lently  rubbing  them  with  her  apron,  till  Ellen,  who  was  stand¬ 
ing  at  the  window,  on  tip  toe,  announced  that  Jane  Stillman  was 
coming  “  with  her  changeable  silk  on.” 

And  Jane  Stillman  bad  scarcely  taken  offher  things  when  Polly 
Harris  was  announced.  She  wore  a  thin  white  muslin,  and  a 
broad-rimmed  Leghorn  hat,  set  off  with  a  profusion  of  gay  rib¬ 
bons  and  flowers,  though  she  had  ridden  on  horseback  ;  but  in 
those  days  riding-dresses  were  not  much  in  vogue,  at  least  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Clovernook. 

Amid  jesting  and  laughter  we  took  our  places  at  the  quilt, 
■while  Ellen  kept  watch  at  the  window  and  brought  up  the  new 
comers — sometimes  two  or  three  at  once. 

Mrs.  Wetherbe  had  not  been  at  all  exclusive,  and  her  invi¬ 
tations  included  all,  rich  and  poor,  maid  and  mistress,  as  far  as 
she  was  acquainted.  So,  while  some  came  in  calico  gowns,  with 
handkerchiefs  tied  over  their  heads,  walking  across  the  fields,  oth¬ 
ers  were  attired  in  silks  and  satins,  and  rode  on  horseback,  or 
■were  brought  in  market  wagons  by  their  fathers  or  brothers. 

Along  the  yard  fence  hung  rows  of  side-saddles,  and  old  work 
horses  and  sleek  fillies  were  here  and  there  tied  to  the  branches 
of  the  trees,  to  enjoy  the  shade,  and  nibble  the  grass,  while  the 
long-legged  colts  responded  to  calls  of  their  dams,  capering 
as  they  would. 

Nimbly  ran  fingers  up  and  down  and  across  the  quilt,  and 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


41 


tongues  moved  no  less  nimbly  ;  and  though  now  and  then  glances 
strayed  away  from  the  work  to  the  fields,  and  suppressed  titters 
broke  into  loud  laughter,  as,  one  after  another,  the  young  men 
were  seen  with  axes  over  their  shoulders  wending  towards  the 
woods,  the  work  went  on  bravely,  and  Polly  Harris  soon  called 
out,  clapping  her  hands  in  triumph,  “  Our  side  is  ready  to  1  roll.’  ” 

Ellen  was  very  busy  and  very  happy,  now  overseeing  the 
rolling  of  the  quilt,  now  examining  the  stitching  of  some  young 
quilter,  and  now  serving  round  cakes  and  cider,  and  giving  to 
every  one  kind  words  and  smiles. 

“  Oh,  Ellen,”  called  a  young  mischief-loving  girl,  “  please  let 
me  and  Susan  Milford  go  out  and  play  and  forthwith  they 
ran  down  stairs,  and  it  was  not  till  they  were  presently  seen 
skipping  across  the  field  with  a  basket  of  cakes  and  a  jug  of 
cider,  that  their  motive  was  suspected,  and  then,  for  the  first  time 
that  day,  gossip  found  a  vent. 

“  I ’d  be  sorry,”  said  Mehi table  Worthington,  a  tall,  oldish  girl, 
u  to  be  seen  running  after  the  boys,  as  some  do.” 

“  La,  me,  Mehitable,”  answered  Ellen,  who  always  had  a  good 
word  for  everybody,  “  it  ain’t  every  one  who  is  exemplary  like 
you,  but  they  are  just  in  fun,  you  know  ;  young  wild  girls,  you 
know.” 

“  1  don’t  know  how  young  they  be,”  answered  the  spinster, 
tartly,  not  much  relishing  any  allusion  to  age,  “  but  1  birds  of 
a  feather  flock  together,’  and  them  that  likes  the  boys  can  talk 
in  favor  of  others  that  likes  them.” 

“  Why,  don’t  you  like  them  ?”  asked  Hetty  Martin,  looking 
up  archly. 

“  Yes,  I  like  them  out  of  my  sight,”  answered  Mehitable, 
stitching  fast. 

Upon  hearing  this,  the  dimples  deepened  in  Hetty’s  cheeks, 
and  the  smile  was  as  visible  in  her  black  eyes  as  on  her  lips. 

“  I  suppose  you  wish  you  had  gone  along,”  said  Mehitable 
maliciously,  “  but  I  can  tell  you  the  young  doctor  is  not  there  ; 
he  was  called  away  to  the  country  about  twelve  o’clock,  to  a 
man  that  took  sick  yesterday.”  Hetty’s  face  crimsoned  a  little, 
but  otherwise  she  manifested  no  annoyance,  and  she  replied, 
laughingly,  that  she  hoped  he  would  get  back  before  night. 


42 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Mehitable  was  not  thus  to  be  baffled,  however ;  her  heart  was 
overflowing  with  bitterness,  for  he  whom  she  called  the  young 
doctor  was,  in  her  estimation,  old  enough  to  be  a  more  fitting 
mate  for  herself  than  for  Hetty,  her  successful  rival ;  and  no 
sooner  was  she  foiled  in  one  direction  than  she  turned  in  an¬ 
other,  revolving  still  in  her  mind  such  sweet  and  bitter  fancies. 
“  I  guess  he  is  no  such  great  things  of  a  doctor  after  all,”  she 
said  ;  and  elevating  her  voice  and  addressing  -a  maiden  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  quilt,  she  continued,  “Did  you  hear,  Eliza¬ 
beth,  about  his  going  to  visit  Mrs.  Mercer,  and  supposing  her  at¬ 
tacked  with  cholera,  when  in  a  day  or  two  the  disease  fell  in  her 
arms  ?” 

This  effervescence  was  followed  by  a  general  laughter,  during 
which  Hetty  went  to  the  window,  apparently  to  disentangle  her 
thread ;  but  Ellen  speedily  relieved  her  by  inviting  her  to  go 
with  her  below  and  see  about  the  supper. 

“  I  should  think,”  said  Elizabeth,  who  cordially  sympathized 
with  her  friend,  “  the  little  upstart  would  be  glad  to  get  out  of 
sight;”  and  then  came  a  long  account  of  the  miserable  way  in 
which  Hetty’s  family  lived  ;  “  every  one  knows,”  they  said,  “  her 
father  drinks  up  every  thing,  and  for  all  she  looks  so  fine  in  her 
white  dress,  most  likely  her  mother  has  earned  it  by  washing  or 
sewing  :  they  say  she  wants  to  marry  off  her  young  beauty,  but 
I  guess  it  will  be  hard  to  do.” 

When  Hetty  returned  to  the  garret,  her  eyes  were  not  so 
bright  as  they  had  been,  but  her  subdued  manner  made  her  only 
the  prettier,  ard  all,  save  the  two  ancient  maidens  alluded  to, 
were  ready  to  say  or  do  something  for  her  pleasure.  Those  un¬ 
comfortable  persons,  however,  were  not  yet  satisfied,  and  tip¬ 
ping  their  tongues  with  the  unkindest  venom  of  all,  they  began 
to  talk  of  a  wealthy  and  accomplished  young  lady,  somewhere, 
whom  it  was  rumored  the  doctor  was  shortly  to  marry,  in  spite 
of  little  flirtations  at  home,  that  some  people  thought  meant 
something.  Very  coolly  they  talked  of  the  mysterious  belle’s 
superior  position  and  advantages,  as  though  no  humble  and  lov¬ 
ing  heart  shook  under  their  words  as  under  a  storm  of  arrows. 

The  young  girls  came  back  from  the  woods,  and  hearing  their 
reports  of  the  number  of  choppers,  and  how  many  trees  were 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


43 


felled,  and  cut  and  corded,  the  interrupted  mirthfulness  was  re¬ 
stored,  though  Hetty  laughed  less  joyously,  and  her  elderly  ri¬ 
vals  maintained  a  dignified  reserve. 

Aside  from  this  little  episode,  all  went  merry,  and  from  the 
west  window  a  golden  streak  of  sunshine  stretched  further  and 
further,  till  it  began  to  climb  the  opposite  wall,  when  the  quilt 
was  rolled  to  so  narrow  a  width  that  but  few  could  work  on  it  to 
advantage,  and  Ellen,  selecting  the  most  expeditious  to  com¬ 
plete  the  task,  took  with  her  the  rest  to  assist  in  preparing  the 
supper,  which  was  done  to  the  music  of  vigorous  strokes  echo¬ 
ing  and  re-echoing  from  the  adjacent  woods. 


VI. 

Beneath  the  glimmer  of  more  candles  than  Mrs.  Wetherbe 
had  previously  burned  at  once,  the  supper  was  spread,  and  it 
was  very  nice  and  plentiful ;  for,  more  mindful  of  the  wood- 
chopper’s  appetites  than  of  Mrs.  Randall’s  notions  of  propriety, 
there  were  at  least  a  dozen  broiled  chickens,  besides  other  sub¬ 
stantial  dishes,  on  the  table.  I  need  not  attempt  a  full  enumera¬ 
tion  of  the  preserves,  cakes,  pies,  puddings,  and  other  such 
luxuries,  displayed  on  Mrs.  Wetherbe’s  table,  and  which  it  is 
usual  for  country  housewifes  to  provide  with  liberal  hands  on 
occasions  of  this  sort. 

Ellen  was  very  proud,  as  she  took  the  last  survey  before 
sounding  the  horn  for  the  men-folks;  and  well  she  might  be  so, 
for  it  was  chiefly  through  her  ingenuity  and  active  agency  that 
every  thing  was  so  tastefully  and  successfully  prepared. 

Mrs.  Randall  still  made  herself  officious,  but  with  less  assu¬ 
rance  than  at  first.  Ellen  was  in  nowise  inclined  to  yield  her 
authority,  and  indeed  almost  the  entire  responsibility  rested  on 
her,  for  poor  Mrs.  Wetherbe  was  sadly  out  of  spirits  in  conse¬ 
quence  of  the  non-appearance  of  Ilelph  and  Jenny.  All  possi¬ 
ble  chances  of  evil  were  exaggerated  by  her,  and  in  her  simple 
apprehension  there  were  a  thousand  dangers  which  did  not  in 
reality  exist.  In  spite  of  the  festivities  about  her,  she  some¬ 
times  found  it  impossible  to  restrain  her  tears.  Likely  enough, 


44 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


she  said,  the  dear  boy  had  got  into  the  canal,  or  the  river,  and 
was  drownded,  or  his  critter  might  have  become  frightened — - 
there  were  so  many  skeerry  things  in  town — and  so  rim  away 
with  him,  and  broke  every  thing  to  pieces. 

Once  or  twice  she  walked  to  the  neighboring  hill,  in  the  hope 
of  seeing  him  in  the  distance,  but  in  vain — he  did  not  come ; 
the  supper  could  be  delayed  no  longer,  and,  sitting  by  the  win¬ 
dow  that  overlooked  the  highway,  she  continued  her  anxious 
watching.  Not  so  the  mother ;  she  gave  herself  little  trouble 
as  to  whether  any  accident  had  befallen  her  son  ;  perhaps  she 
guessed  the  cause  of  his  delay,  but,  so  or  not,  none  were  gayer 
than  she. 

Her  beauty  had  once  been  of  a  showy  order ;  she  was  not 
yet  very  much  faded  ;  and  on  this  occasion,  though  her  gown 
was  of  calico*  her  hair  was  tastefully  arranged,  and  she  was 
really  the  best  dressed  woman  in  the  assembly.  Of  this  she 
seemed  aware,  and  she  glided  into  flirtations  with  the  country 
beaux,  in  a  free  and  easy  way  which  greatly  surprised  some 
of  us  unsophisticated  girls  ;  in  fact,  one  or  two  elderly  bachelors 
were  sorely  disappointed,  as  well  as  amazed,  when  they  under¬ 
stood  that  the  lady  from  town  was  none  other  than  Helph’s 
mother  !  I  cannot  remember  a  time  when  my  spirits  had  much 
of  the  careless  buoyancy  which  makes  youth  so  blessed,  and  at 
this  time  I  was  little  more  than  a  passive  observer,  for  which 
reason,  perhaps,  I  remember  more  correctly  the  incidents  of 
the  evening. 

The  table  was  spread  among  the  trees  in  the  door-yard,  Which 
was  illuminated  with  tallow  candles,  in  very  simple  paper  lan¬ 
terns  ;.the  snowy  linen  waved  in  the  breeze,  and  the  fragrance 
of  tea  and  coffee  was,  for  the  time,  pleasanter  than  that  of 
flowers;  but  flowers  were  in  requisition,  and  such  as  were  in 
bloom,  large  or  small,  bright  or  pale,  were  gathered  to  adorn 
tresses  of  every  hue,  curled  and  braided  with  the  most  elabo¬ 
rate  care.  At  a  later  hour,  some  of  them  were  transferred  to 
the  buttonholes  of  favored  admirers. 

What  an  outbreak  of  merriment  there  was,  when,  at  twilight, 
down  the  hill  that  sloped  against  the  woods,  came  the  gay  band 
of  choppers,  with  coats  swung  on  their  arms,  and  axes  gleam- 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  TARTY. 


45 


ing  over  their  shoulders.  Every  things  became  irresistibly  pro¬ 
vocative  of  enjoyment,  and  from  every  window  and  every  nook 
that  could  be  occupied  by  the  quilters,  went  mingled  jests  and 
laughter. 

The  quilt  was  finished,  but  Mehitable  and  Elizabeth  remained 
close  within  the  chamber,  whether  to  contemplate  the  completed 
work,  or  to  regale  themselves  with  each  other’s  accumulations 
of  scandal,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  guess. 

A  large  tin  lantern  was  placed  on  the  top  of  the  pump,  and 
beside  it  was  a  wash-tub  filled  with  water,  which  was  intended 
as  a  general  resort  for  the  ablutions  of  the  young  men.  Besides 
the  usual  roller-towel,  which  hung  by  the  kitchen  door,  there 
were  two  or  three  extra  ones  attached  to  the  boughs  of  the 
apple-tree,  by  the  wrell ;  and  the  bar  of  yellow  soap,  procured 
for  the  occasion,  lay  on  a  shingle,  conveniently  near,  while  a 
paper  comb-case  dangled  from  a  bough  betwixt  the  towels. 

These  toilet  facilities  were  deemed  by  some  of  the  party 
altogether  superfluous,  and  their  wooden  pocket-combs  and 
handkerchiefs  were  modestly  preferred.  During  the  fixing  up 
the  general  gayety  found  vent  in  a  liberal  plashing  and  dashing 
of  water  on  each  other,  as  also  in  wrestling  bouts,  and  contests 
of  mere  words,  at  the  conclusion  of  which  the  more  aristo-_ 
cratic  of  the  gentlemen  resumed  their  coats,  while  others,  dis¬ 
daining  ceremony,  remained,  not  only  at  the  supper  but  during 
the  entire  evening,  in  their  shirt  sleeves,  and  with  silk  handker¬ 
chiefs  bound  around  their  waists,  as  is  the  custom  with  reapers. 

“  Come,  boys  !”  called  Ellen,  who  assumed  a  sort  of  motherly 
tone  and  manner  toward  all  the  company,  “whatcfoes  make 
you  stay  away  so  1” 

The  laughter  among  the  girls  subsided,  as  they  arranged 
themselves  in  a  demure  row  along  one  side  of  the  table,  and 
the  jests  fell  at  once  to  a  murmur  as  the  boys  found  their  places 
opposite.  “  Now,  don’t  all  speak  at  once,”  said  Ellen  :  “  how 
will  you  have  your  coffee,  Quincy  1” 

Mr.  Quincy  Adams  Claverel  said  he  wras  not  particular  :  he 
would  take  a  little  sugar  and  a  little  cream  if  she  had  them 
handy,  if  not,  it  made  no  difference. 

“  Tea  or  coffee,  Mehitable  ?”  she  said  next ;  but  the  young 


40 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


woman  addressed  did  not  drink  either — coffee  made  her  drowsy- 
like,  and  if  she  should  drink  a  cup  of  tea,  she  should  not  sleep 
a  wink  all  night. 

Elizabeth  said,  Mehitt  was  just  like  herself — she  drank  a 
great  deal,  and  strong.  The  jesting  caused  much  laughter,  and 
indeed  the  mirth  was  quite  irrepressible — on  the  part  of  the 
girls,  because  of  the  joyous  occasion,  and  their  greater  excita¬ 
bility,  and  on  that  of  the  young  men,  because  of  the  green 
and  yellow  twisted  bottles  that  had  glistened  that  afternoon  in 
the  ivy  which  grew  along  the  woods :  even  more  for  this,  per¬ 
haps,  than  for  the  bright  eyes  before  them. 

One  said  she  drank  her  tea  “naked;”  another,  that  Ellen 
might  give  her  half  a  cup  first  rate — she  would  rather  have  a  little 
and  have  it  good,  than  have  a  great  deal  and  not  have  it  good. 
And  in  this  she  meant  not  the  slightest  offence  or  insinuation. 

“I  hope,”  said  Mr.  Wetherbe,  speaking  in  a  diffident  voice, 
and  pushing  back  his  thin  gray  hair,  “  I  hope  you  will  none  of 
you  think  hard  of  my  woman  for  not  coming  to  sarve  you  her¬ 
self — she  is  in  the  shadder  of  trouble,  but  she  as  well  as  my¬ 
self  thanks  you  all  for  the  good  turn  you  have  done  us,  and 
wishes  you  to  make  yourselves  at  home,  and  frolic  as  long  as 
you  are  a  mind  to;”  and  the  good  man  retired  to  the  house  to 
give  his  wife  such  comfort  as  he  could. 

The  shadow  of  their  sorrow  did  not  rest  long  on  the  group 
at  the  table,  and  the  laughter,  for  its  temporary  suppression, 
was  louder  than  before.  There  were  one  or  two  exceptions, 
however,  among  the  gay  company.  Poor  Hetty  Martin,  as 
her  eyes  ran  along  the  line  of  smiling  faces  and  failed  of  the 
object  of  their  search,  felt  them  droop  heavily,  and  her  smiles 
and  words  were  alike  forced.  Between  her  and  all  the  pleas¬ 
ures  of  the  night  stood  the  vision  of  a  fair  lady,  conjured  by 
the  evil  words  of  Mehitable  and  Elizabeth,  and  scarcely  would 
the  tears  stay  back  any  longer,  when  her  light-hearted  neighbors 
rallied  her  as  to  the  cause  of  her  dejection.  At  the  sound  of  a 
hoofstroke  on  the  highway,  her  quick  and  deep  attention  be¬ 
trayed  the  interest  she  felt  in  the  absent  doctor. 

“  Why  hast  thou  no  music  on  thy  tongue,  fair  maiden  V* 
asked  a  pale,  slender  young  man,  sitting  near  by ;  and  looking 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


41 


up,  her  eyes  encountered  the  blue  and  melancholy  ones  of  a 
young  cooper,  who  had  lately  neglected  the  adze  for  the  pen, 
in  the  use  of  which  he  was  not  likely  to  obtain  much  facility. 
His  flaxen  hair  hung  in  curls  down  his  shoulders;  he  wore  his 
collar  reversed,  and  a  sprig  of  cedar  in  the  buttonhole  of  his 
vest,  which  was  of  red  and  yellow  colors  ;  otherwise  his  dress 
was  not  fantastical,  though  he  presented  the  appearance  of  one 
whose  inclinations  outstripped  his  means,  perhaps.  A  gold 
chain  attached  to  a  silver  watch,  and  a  bracelet  of  hair  on  the 
left  wrist,  fastened  with  a  small  tinsel  clasp,  evinced  that  his 
tastes  had  not  been  cultivated  with  much  care,  though  his  face 
attested  some  natural  refinement.  He  had  recently  jmblished  in 
the  “  Ladies’-  Garland,”  two  poems,  entitled  and  opening  in 
this  way  : 

“ALONE. 

“For  every  one  on  earth  but  me 

There  is  some  sweet,  sweet  low  tone; 

Death  and  the  grave  are  all  I  see, 

I  am  alone,  alone,  alone  !” 

“ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

“  A  little  while  the  lovely  flower 

To  cheer  our  earthly  home  was  given, 

But  oh,  it  withered  in  an  hour, 

And  death  transplanted  it  to  heaven.” 

These  very  original  and  ingenious  verses  he  took  from  his 
pocket  and  submitted  to  the  critical  acumen  of  Hetty,  saying 
he  should  really  take  it  as  a  great  favor  if  she  would  tell  him 
frankly  what  her  opinion  was  of  the  repetitions  in  the  last  line 
of  the  first  stanza,  as  also  what  she  thought  of  the  idea  of  com¬ 
paring  a  child  to  a  flower,  and  of  Death’s  transplanting  it  from 
earth  to  heaven. 

Hetty  knew  nothing  of  poetry,  but  she  possessed  an  in¬ 
stinctive  sense  of  politeness,  and  something  of  tact,  as  indeed 
most  women  do,  and  shaped  her  answer  to  conceal  her  igno¬ 
rance,  and  at  the  same  time  flatter  her  auditor.  This  so  inflated 
his  vanity,  that  he  informed  her  confidentially  that  he  was  just 
then  busily  engaged  in  the  collection  of  his  old  letters,  for  no¬ 
body  knew,  he  said,  what  publicity  they  might  come  to,  from 
his  distinguished  position  as  a  literary  man. 


48 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


In  his  apprehensions  and  cautious  endeavors  the  lady  con¬ 
curred,  and  he  resolved  at  once  to  put  in  the  “  Ladies’  Gar  . 
land”  an  advertisement,  requesting  all  persons  who  might  have 
any  letters  or  other  writings  of  his,  to  return  them  to  the  ad¬ 
dress  of  P.  Joel  Springer,  forthwith.  High  above  the  praises 
of  his  simple  listener,  he  heard  sounding  the  blessed  award  of 
the  future  time,  and  the  echoes  of  his  unrequited  sorrows  went 
moaning  through  the  farther  parts  of  the  world. 

Who  of  us  are  much  wiser  ?  for  on  bases  as  unsubstantial 
have  we  not  at  one  time  or  another  rested  some  gorgeous  fabric 
whose  turrets  were  to  darken  among  the  stars.  Time  soon 
enough  strips  the  future  of  its  fantastic  beauty,  drives  aside 
the  softening  mists,  and  reveals  to  us  the  hard  and  sharp  reali¬ 
ties  of  things. 

But  the  guests  were  generally  merry,  and  they  did  ample 
justice  to  the  viands  before  them,  partly  because  they  had  ex¬ 
cellent  appetites,  and  partly  in  answer  to  the  urgent  entreaties 
of  Ellen,  though  she  constantly  depreciated  her  culinary  skill, 
and  reiterated  again  and  again  that  she  had  nothing  very  invit¬ 
ing.  But  her  praises  were  on  every  tongue,  and  her  hands 
were  more  than  busy  with  the  much  service  required  of  them, 
which  nevertheless  added  to  her  happiness  ;  and  as  she  glided 
up  and  down  the  long  table,  dispensing  the  tea  and  coffee,  snuff¬ 
ing  the  candles,  or  urging  the  most  bashful  to  be  served  with  a 
little  of  this  or  that,  just  to  please  her,  she  was  the  very  per¬ 
sonification  of  old-fashioned  country  hospitality. 

Every  one  liked  Ellen,  for  she  was  one  of  those  who  always 
forget  themselves  when  there  is  any  thing  to  remember  for 
others. 

At  length,  one  of  the  young  men  who  had  been  in  communi¬ 
cation  with  the  bottles,  mentioned  as  lying  cool  among  the  ivy 
during  the  afternoon,  protested  that  he  would  bring  a  rail  to 
serve  as  a  pry,  unless  his  companions  desisted  from  further  eat¬ 
ing  of  their  own  free  will. 

“  That  is  right,  Bill,”  called  out  one  kindred  in  bluntness  and 
coarseness,  “  here  is  a  fellow  wants  choking  off.” 

u  I  own  up  to  that,”  said  another,  “  I  have  eaten  about  a 
bushel,  l  guess.” 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


49 


“If  I  had  a  dollar  for  every  mouthful  you  have  eaten,”  said 
one,  “  I  wouldn’t  thank  nobody  for  being  kin  to  me.” 

“  Well,”  answered  the  person  thus  addressed,  “  if  I  have  busted 
a  couple  of  buttons  off  my  vest,  I  don’t  think  you  are  a  fellow 
that  will  be  likely  to  let  much  bread  mould.” 

“  La,  how  you  young  men  do  run  on,”  interposed  Ellen, 
neither  surprised  nor  offended  at  the  coarse  freedom  of  the 
jests;  and  amid  obstreperous  laughter  the  party  arose,  and 
many  of  the  young  men  resorted  again  to  the  whiskey  bottles, 
for  the  sake  of  keeping  up  their  spirits,  as  they  said,  after 
which,  with  lighted  cigars  in  their  mouths,  they  locked  arms 
with  the  ladies,  and  talked  sentimentjn  the  moonlight  as  they 
strolled,  in  separate  pairs,  preparatory  to  assembling  in  the  gar¬ 
ret  for  the  usual  order  of  exercises  prescribed  for  such  occasions. 

Meantime  the  candles  were  mostly  carried  thither  by  cer¬ 
tain  forlorn  maidens,  who  declared  themselves  afraid  of  the 
night  air,  and  from  the  open  windows  rung  out  old  hymns, 
which,  if  not  altogether  in  keeping  with  the  general  feeling  and 
conduct  of  the  occasion,  constituted  the  only  musical  resources 
of  the  party,  and  afforded  as  much  enjoyment  perhaps^  as  the 
rarest  songs  to  beauties  flecked  with  diamonds,  when  met  for 
gayety  or  for  display  in  marble  halls. 

Hidden  by  shadows,  and  sitting  with  folded  arms  on  a  top¬ 
most  fence-rail,  P.  Joel  Springer  listened  alone  to  the  dirge¬ 
like  sighing  of  the  wind,  and  the  dismal  hootings  of  the  owl. 
And  our  good  hostess,  the  while,  could  be  prevailed  on  neither 
to  eat  nor  sleep,  even  though  her  excellent  spouse  assured  her 
that  Helph  was  safe  enough,  and  that  she  knew  right  well  how 
often  he  had  spent  the  night  from  home  in  his  young  days, 
without  meeting  any  accident  or  misfortune;  but  the  dear  old 
lady  refused  to  be  comforted  ;  and  every  unusual  noise,  to  her 
fancy,  was  somebody  bringing  Helph  home  dead.  Mr.  Weth- 
erbe  had,  the  previous  autumn,  “  missed  a  land  ”  in  the  sowing 
of  his  wheat  field,  and  that,  she  had  always  heard  say,  was  a 
sure  sign  of  death. 

In  couples,  already  engaged  for  the  first  play,  the  strollers 
came  in  at  last,  and  there  was  a  tempest  of  laughter  and  frolic, 
which  fairly  shook  the  house.  The  customs  which  prevailed, 

3 


50 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


even  a  dozen  years  ago,  in  Clovernook  and  other  rural  neighbor¬ 
hoods  of  the  west,  are  now  obsolete  ;  but  I  do  not  in  any  de¬ 
gree  overdraw  the  manners  of  the  period  in  which  this  quilting 
occurred  at  Mrs.  Wetherbe’s.  Some  embarrassment  followed 
the  assembling  in  the  garret  under  the  blaze  of  so  many  can¬ 
dles,  but  when  it  was  whispered  that  Jo  Allen,  the  most  genial 
and  true-hearted  of  them  all,  had  just  been  taken  home  on 
horseback,  and  that  Abner  Gibbs,  for  his  better  security,  had 
ridden  behind  him,  there  were  renewed  peals  of  laughter,  and 
no  one  seemed  to  doubt  that  such  indulgence  and  misfortune 
were  a  legitimate  subject  of  merriment.  Others,  it  was  more 
privately  suggested,  had  also  taken  a  drop  too  much,  and  would 
not  be  in  condition  to  see  the  girls  “  safe  home  ”  that  night. 

“Come,”  said  Ellen,  as  she  entered  the  room,  last  of  all,  hav¬ 
ing  been  detained  after  the  fulfilment  of  her  other  duties  by 
kindly  endeavoring  to  induce  Jo  Allen  to  drink  some  new  milk, 
as  an  antidote  to  the  Monongahela,  “come,  why  don’t  some  of 
you  start  a  play  ?”  But  all  protested  they  didn’t  know  a  sin¬ 
gle  thing,  and  insisted  that  Ellen  should  herself  lead  the 
amusements. 

Hunting  the  Keg  being  proposed,  the  whole  party  was  formed 
•into  a  circle,  with  hands  joined  to  hands,  and  directed  to  move 
rapidly  round  and  round,  during  which  process,  a  key  was  at¬ 
tached  to  the  coat  of  some  unsuspecting  individual,  who  was 
then  selected  to  find  it,  being  informed  that  it  was  in  the  keep¬ 
ing  of  one  of  the  party.  The  circle  resumed  its  gyrations,  and 
the  search  commenced  by  examining  pockets  and  forcing  apart 
interlocked  hands,  a  procedure  relished  infinitely — all  except  the 
inquirer  after  the  key  well  knowing  where  it  might  be  found. 

Soon  all  diffidence  vanished,  and 

“  O,  sister  Phoebe,  how  merry  were  we, 

The  night  we  sat  under  the  juniper-tree,” 

rung  across  the  meadows,  and  was  followed  by  other  rude 

rhymes,  sung  as  accompaniments  to  the  playing. 

“Uncle  Johnny’s  sick  a-bed — 

For  his  blisses,  send  him,  misses, 

Three  good  wishes,  three  good  kisses, 

And  a  loaf  of  gingerbread,” 

was  received  with  every  evidence  of  admiration — an  exchange 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


51 


of  kisses  being  required,  of  course.  Then  came  the  Selling  of 
Pawns ,  and  the  Paying  of  Penalties ,  with  requisitions  no  less 
agreeable  to  all  parties. 

“My  love  and  I  will  go, 

And  my  love  and  I  will  go, 

And  we’ll  settle  on  the  banks 
Of  the  pleasant  O-lii-o,” 

was  enacted  by  each  beau’s  choosing  a  partner,  and  promenad¬ 
ing  “  to  the  tune  of  a  slight  flirtation.”  And  Blind  Man's  Buff \ 
and  Hold  Fast  all  I  Give  You ,  and  half  a  dozen  other  winter 
evening’s  entertainments,  then  regarded  as  not  undeserving  the 
best  skill  of  country  gentlemen  -and  ladies,  though  now  for  the 
most  part  resigned  everywhere  to  the  younger  boys  and  girls, 
were  played  with  the  most  genuine  enjoyment. 

The  night  wore  on  to  the  largest  hours,  and  for  a  concluding 
sport  was  proposed  Love  and  War.  In  the  centre  of  the  room, 
two  chairs  were  placed,  some  three  feet  apart,  over  which  a  * 
quilt  was  carefully  spread,  so  as  seemingly  to  form  a  divan,  and 
when  a  lady  was  seated  on  each  chair,  the  gentlemen  withdrew  to 
the  lower  apartmen'ts,  to  be  separately  suffered  to  enter  again 
when  all  should  be  in  order.*  A  rap  on  the  door  announced  an 
applicant  for  admission,  who  was  immediately  conducted  by 
the  master  of  ceremonies  to  the  treacherous  divan,  and  pre¬ 
sented  to  the  ladies,  being  asked  at  the  same  time  whether  he 
preferred  love  or  war  1  and,  no  matter  which  was  his  choice, 
he  was  requested  to  sit  between  the  two,  when  they  rose,  and 
by  so  doing,  caused  their  innocent  admirer  to  be  precipitated 
to  the  floor — a  denouement  which  was  sure  to  be  followed  by 
the  most  boisterous  applause. 

“I  guess,”  said  Mehitable,  whispering  in  a  congratulatory 
way  to  Elizabeth,  “  that  Hetty  will  have  to  get  home  the  best 
way  she  can  :  I  haven’t  seen  anybody  ask  her  for  her  company.” 
But  just  then  there  was  a  little  bustle  at  the  door,  and  a  mur¬ 
mur  of  congratulations  and  regrets,  over  which  was  heard  the 
exclamation,  “ Just  in  time  to  see  the  cat  die!”  Mehitable 
raised  herself  on  tiptoe,  and  discovered  that  the  doctor  had  at 
length  arrived.  A  moment  afterwards  he  stood  beside  Iletty, 
who  was  blushing  and  smiling  with  the  most  unfeigned  satis- 


UBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILL!  NO  If 


62 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


faction ;  but  in  answer  to  some  whispered  words  of  his  she 
shook  her  head,  a  little  sadly,  as  it  seemed,  and  the  doctor’s 
brow  darkened  with  a  frown.  Of  this,  Mr.  P.  Joel  Springer 
was  not  unobservant,  and  coming  forward,  reluctantly,  as  he 
said,  relinquished  the  pleasure  he  had  expected — concluding  his 
poetical  and  gallant  speech  with,  “  xVdieu,  fair  maiden,  alone  I 
take  my  solitary  way,  communing  with  the  stars.” 

Hetty  and  the  doctor  were  the  next  to  go,  and  then  came  a 
general  breaking  up  ;  horses  were  saddled,  and  sleepy  colts, 
leaving  the  places  they  had  warmed  in  the  grass,  followed  slowly 
the  gallants,  who  walked  beside  the  ladies  as  they  rode.  There 
were  some,  too,  who  took  theirwvay  across  the  fields,  and  others 
through  the  dusty  highway,  all  mated  as  pleased  them,  except 
Mehitable  and  Elizabeth,  who  were  both  mounted  on  one  horse, 
comforting  each  other  with  assurances  that  the  young  men  wTere 
very  great  fools. 

And  so,  in  separate  pairs,  they  wended  their  w’ays  homeward, 
each  gentlemen  with  the  slippers  of  his  lady-love  in  his  pocket, 
and  her  mammoth  comb  in  his  hat. 

VII. 

We  will  now  return  to  IJelphenstein,  and  give  some  particu 
lars  of  the  night  as  it  passed  with  him.  It  was  near  noon  when 
he  drew  the  reins  before  the  house  of  his  father,  with  a  heart 
full  of  happy  anticipations  for  the  afternoon  and  evening  ;  but 
his  bright  dream  wras  destined  quickly  to  darken  awTay  to  the 
soberest  reality  of  his  life.  His  father  met  him  in  the  hall 
with  a  flushed  face,  and  taking  his  hand  with  some  pretence  of 
cordiality,  said  in  an  irritable  tone,  as  though  he  had  not  the 
slightest  idea  of  the  nature  of  his  errand,  “  Why,  my  son,  what 
in  the  devil’s  name  has  brought  you  home  1” 

He  then  gave  a  doleful  narrative  of  the  discomforts  and  pri¬ 
vations  he  had  endured  in  the  few  days  of  the  absence  of  Mrs. 
Randall,  for  whom  he  either  felt,  or  affected  to  feel,  the  greatest 
love  and  admiration,  whenever  she  wTas  separated  from  him  ; 
though  his  manner  towards  her,  except  during  these  spasmodic 
affections,  was  extremely  neglectful  and  harsh. 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


63 


“What  is  a  man  to  do,  my  son  ITelph'?”  he  said;  “your 
poor  father  has  n’t  had  a  meal  of  victuals  fit  for  a  dog  to  eat, 
since  your  mother  went  into  the  country  :  how  is  she,  poor 
woman  1  I  think  I’ll  just  get  into  your  buggy,  and  run  out  and 
bring  your  mother  home  ;  things  will  all  go  to  ruin  in  two  days 
more — old  black  Kitty  aint  worth  a  cuss,  and  Jenny  aint  worth 
another.” 

And  this  last  hit  he  seemed  to  regard  as  most  especially 
happy,  in  its  bearing  upon  Idelph,  whose  opinions  of  Jenny  by 
no  means  coincided  with  his  own ;  but  his  coarse  allusion  to 
her,  so  far  from  warping  his  judgment  against  the  poor  girl, 
made  him  for  the  time  oblivious  of  every  thing  else,  and  he 
hastened  in  search  of  her. 

“  Lord,  honey,  I  is  glad  to  see  you !”  exclaimed  Aunt  Kitty, 
looking  up  from  her  work  in  the  kitchen  :  for  she  was  kneading 
bread,  with  the  tray  in  her  lap,  in  consequence  of  rheumatic 
pains  which  prevented  her  from  standing  much  on  her  feet. 

“  What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  ?”  asked  Ilelph,  anxiously, 
as  he  saw  her  disability. 

“Noffin  much,”  she  said,  smiling;  “my  fee t  are  like  to  bust 
wid  the  inflammatious  rheumatis — dat’s  all.  But  J  5s  a  poor 
sinful  critter,”  she  continued,  “and  de  flesh  pulls  mighty  hard 
on  de  sperrit,  sometimes,  when  I  ought  to  be  thinkin’  ob  de 
mornin’  ober  Jordan.” 

And  having  assured  him  that  she  would  move  her  old  bones 
as  fast  as  she  could,  and  prepare  the  dinner,  she  directed  him 
where  to  find  Jenny,  saying,  “Go  ’long  wid  you,  and  you  ’ll 
find  her  a  seamsterin’  up  stairs,  and  never  mind  de  ’stress  of 
an  old  darkie  like  me.” 

As  he  obeyed,  he  heard  her  calling  on  the  Lord  to  bless  him, 
for  that  he  was  the  best  young  master  of  them  all.  Poor 
kind-hearted  creature  !  she  did  not  then  or  ever,  as  others  heard, 
ask  any  blessing  for  herself. 

In  one  end  of  the  long  low  garret,  unplastered,  and  comfort¬ 
less,  from  the  heat  in  summer  and  the  cold  in  winter,  there  was 
a  cot  bed,  a  dilapidated  old  trunk,  a  broken  work-stand,  a  small 
cracked  looking-glass,  and  a  strip  of  faded  carpet.  By  courtesy, 
this  was  called  Jenny’s  room ;  and  here,  seated  on  a  chair  with- 


54 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


out  any  back,  sat  the  maiden,  stitching  shirts  for  her  adopted 
brothers,  when  the  one  who,  from  some  cause  or  other,  never 
called  her  sister,  appeared  suddenly  before  her.  Smiling,  she 
ran  forward  to  meet  him,  but  suddenly  checking  herself,  she 
blushed  deeply,  and  the  exclamation,  “  Dear  Helph  !”  that  rose 
to  her  lips,  was  subdued  and  formalized  to  simple  “  Helphen- 
stein.”  The  cheek  that  was  smooth  when  she  saw  him  last, 
was  darkened  into  manhood  now,  and  her  arm  remained  pas¬ 
sive,  that  had  alwrays  been  thrown  lovingly  about  his  neck ;  but 
in  this  new  timidity  she  appeared  only  the  more  beautiful,  in 
the  eyes  of  her  admirer,  and  if  she  declined  the  old  expressions 
of  fondness,  he  did  not. 

The  first  feeling  of  pleasure  and  surprise  quickly  subsided,  on 
her  part,  into  one  of  pain  and  embarrassment,  when  she  remem¬ 
bered  her  torn  and  faded  dress,  and  the  disappointment  that 
awaited  him. 

“  Well,  Jenny,”  he  said,  when  the  first  greeting  was  over, 
“  I  have  come  for  you — and  you  must  get  ready  as  soon  as 
possible.” 

Poor  child  !  she  turned  away  her  face  to  hide  the  tears  that 
would  not  be  kept  down,  as  she  answered,  “  I  cannot  go — I  have 
nothing  to  get  ready.” 

And  then  inquiries  were  made  about  the  new  dress  of  which 
he  had  been  informed,  and  though  for  a  time  Jenny  hesitated, 
he  drew  from  her  at  last  the  confession  that  it  had  been  appro¬ 
priated  by  his  mother,  under  a  promise  of  procuring  for  her 
another  when  she  should  have  made  a  dozen  shirts  to  pay  for 
it.  An  exclamation  that  evinced  little  filial  reverence  fell  from 
his  lips,  and  then  as  he  soothed  her  grief,  and  sympathized  with 
her,  his  boyish  affection  was  deepened  more  and  more  by  pity. 

“Never  mind,  Jenny,”  he  said,  in  tones  of  simple  and  truth¬ 
ful  earnestness,  “  wear  any  thing  to-day,  but  go — for  my  sake 
go  ;  I  like  you  just  as  well  in  an  old  dress  as  in  a  new  one.” 

Jenny  had  been  little  used  to  kindness,  and  from  her  lonely 
and  sad  heart,  gratitude  found  expression  in  hot  and  thick¬ 
coming  tears. 

Certainly,  she  would  like  of  all  things  to  go  to  the  quilting, 
and  the  more,  perhaps,  that  Helph  was  come  for  her ;  but  in  no 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


55 


time  of  her  life  had  poverty  seemed  so  painful  a  thing.  Dur¬ 
ing  the  past  week  she  had  examined  her  scanty  wardrobe  re¬ 
peatedly  ;  her  shoes,  too,  were  down  at  the  heels,  and  out  at 
the  toes;  to  go  decently  was  quite  impossible,  and  yet,  she 
could  not  suppress  the  desire,  nor  refrain  from  thinking,  over 
and  over,  if  this  dress  were  not  quite  so  much  faded,  or  if  that 
were  not  so  short  and  outgrown — and  then,  if  she  had  money 
to  buy  a  pair  of  shoes,  and  could  borrow  a  neck-ribbon  and 
collar  ! — in  short,  if  things  were  a  little  better  than  they  were 
she  might  go,  and  perhaps,  in  the  night,  her  deficiencies  would 
be  less  noticeable. 

But  in  the  way  of  all  her  thinking  and  planning  lay  the  for¬ 
bidding  if;  and  in  answer  to  the  young  man’s  entreaties,  she 
could  only  cry  and  shake  her  head. 

She  half  wished  he  would  go  away,  and  at  the  same  time 
feared  he  would  go;  she  avoided  looking  at  the  old  run-down 
slippers  she  was  wearing,  as  well  as  at  her  patched  gown,  in  the 
vain  hope  that  thus  he  would  be  prevented  from  seeing  them  ; 
and  so,  half  sorry  and  half  glad,  half  ashamed  and  half  hon¬ 
estly  indignant,  she  sat — the  work  fallen  into  her  lap,  and  the 
tears  now  and  then  dropping,  despite  her  frequent  winking, 
and  vain  efforts  to  smile. 

At  length  Ilelph  remembered  that  his  horse  had  not  been 
cared  for;  and  looking  down  from  the  little  window,  he  found, 
to  his  further  annoyance,  that  both  horse  and  buggy  were  gone, 
and  so  his  return  home  indefinitely  delayed. 

“  1  wish  to  Heaven,”  he  angrily  said,  turning  towards  Jenny, 
“you  and  I  had  a  home  somewhere  beyond  the  reach  of  the 
impositions  practised  on  us  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Randall !” 

The  last  words  were  in  a  bitter  but  subdued  tone ;  and  it  was 
thus,  in  resentment  and  sorrow,  that  the  love-making  of  Helph 
and  Jenny  began. 


VIII. 

Down  the  thinly-wooded  hills,  west  of  the  great  city,  reached 
the  lorn*  shadows  of  the  sunset.  The  streets  were  crowded 

O 

with  mechanics  seeking  their  firesides — in  one  hand  the  little 


56 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


tin  pail  in  which  dinner  had  been  carried,  and  in  the  other  a 
toy  for  the  baby,  perhaps,  or  a  pound  of  tea  or  of  meat  for  the 
good  wife. 

The  smoke  curled  upward  from  the  chimneys  of  the  suburban 
districts,  and  little  rustic  girls  and  boys  were  seen  in  all  direc¬ 
tions,  hurrying  homeward  with  their  arms  full  of  shavings  ;  old 
women,  too,  with  their  bags  of  rags,  betook  themselves  some¬ 
where — Heaven  only  knows  whether  they  had  any  homes,  or 
where  they  went — but  at  any  rate,  with  backs  bending  under 
their  awful  burdens,  they  turned  into  lanes  and  alleys,  and  dis¬ 
appeared  ;  the  tired  dray-horses  walked  faster  and  nimbler  as 
they  smelled  the  oats  in  the  manger ;  and  here  and  there,  in  the 
less  frequented  streets,  bands  of  school-boys  and  girls  drove 
their  hoops,  or  linked  their  arms  and  skipped  joyously  up  and 
down  the  pavement ;  while  now  and  then  a  pair  of  older  child¬ 
ren  strolled,  in  happiness,  for  that  they  dreamed  of  still  more 
blessed  times  to  come.  The  reflections  of  beautiful  things  in  the 
future,  make  the  present  bright,  and  it  is  well  for  us,  since  the 
splendor  fades  from  our  approach,  and  it  is  only  in  reveries  of 
hope  that  we  find  ourselves  in  rest,  or  crowned  with  beauty. 

We  have  need  to  thank  thee,  oh  our  Father,  that  thou  hast 
given  us  the  power  of  seeing  visions  and  dreaming  dreams! 
Earth,  with  all  the  glory  of  its  grass  and  all  the  splendor  of  its 
flowers,  were  dreary  and  barren  and  desolate,  but  for  that 
divine  insanity  which  shapes  deformity  into  grace,  and  dark¬ 
ness  into  light.  How  the  low  roof  is  lifted  up  on  the  airy 
pillars  of  thought,  and  the  close  dark  walls  expanded  and  made 
enchanting  with  the  pictures  of  the  imagination  !  And  best  of 
all,  by  this  blessed  power  the  cheeks  that  are  colorless,  and  the 
•  foreheads  that  are  wrinkled  by  time,  retain  in  our  eyes  the 
freshness  and  the  smoothness  of  primal  years ;  to  us  they  can¬ 
not  grow  old,  for  we  see 

“  Poured  upon  the  locks  of  age, 

The  beauty  of  immortal  youth.” 

Life’s  sharp  realities  press  us  sore,  sometimes,  and  but  for  the 
unsubstantial  bases  on  which  we  build  some  new  anticipations, 
we  should  often  rush  headlong  to  the  dark. 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


57 


\ 


IX. 

They  were  sitting  together,  Helph  and  Jenny,  with  the  twi¬ 
light  deepening  around  them,  speaking  little,  thinking  much, 
and  gazing  through  the  long  vistas  open  to  the  sunshine,  and 
brighter  than  the  western  clouds.  But  they  did  not  think  of 
the  night  that  was  falling,  they  did  not  hear  the  wind  sough¬ 
ing  among  the  hot  walls  and  roofs,  and  prophesying  storm  and 
darkness. 

Suddenly  appeared  before  them  a  miserably  clad  little  boy, 
the  one  mentioned  in  a  previous  chapter  as  coming  for  money, 
and  now,  after  a  moment’s  hesitation,  on  seeing  a  stranger,  he 
laid  his  head  in  the  lap  of  Jenny,  and  cried  aloud.  Stooping 
over  him,  she  smoothed  back  his  hair  and  kissed  his  forehead  ; 
and  in  choked  and  broken  utterances  he  made  known  his  mourn¬ 
ful  errand:  little  Willie  was  very  sick,  and  Jenny  was  wanted 
at  home. 

Few  preparations  were  required.  Helph  would  not  hear  of 
her  going  alone  ;  and  in  the  new  and  terrible  fear  awakened 
by  the  message  of  the  child,  all  her  pride  vanished,  and  she  did 
not  remonstrate,  though  she  knew  the  wretchedness  of  poverty 
that  would  be  bared  before  him.  Folding  close  in  hers  the 
hand  of  her  little  brother,  and  with  tears  dimming  her  eyes, 
she  silently  led  the  way  to  the  miserable  place  occupied  by  her 
family. 

It  was  night,  and  the  light  of  a  hundred  windows  shone  down 
upon  them,  when,  turning  to  her  young  protector,  she  said,  in 
a  voice  trembling  with  both  shame  and  sorrow,  perhaps,  “  This 
is  the  place.”  It  was  a  large  dingy  building,  five  stories  high 
and  nearly  a  hundred  feet  long,  very  roughly  but  substantially 
built  of  brick.  It  was  situated  in  the  meanest  suburb  of  the 
city,  on  an  unpaved  alley,  and  opposite  a  ruinous  graveyard, 
and  it  had  been  erected  on  the  cheapest  possible  plan,  with 
especial  reference  to  the  poorest  class  of  the  community. 
Scarcely  had  the  wealthy  proprietor  an  opportunity  of  posting 


68 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


/ 


bills  announcing  rooms  to  let,  before  it  was  all  occupied ;  and 
with  its  miserable  accommodations,  and  crowded  with  people 
who  were  almost  paupers,  it  was  a  perfect  hive  of  misery. 
Porch  above  porch,  opening  out  on  the  alley,  served  as  door- 
yards  to  the  different  apartments — places  for  the  drying  of 
miserable  rags — play  grounds  for  the  children — and  look-outs, 
for  the  decrepit  old  women,  on  sunny  afternoons. 

Dish-water,  washing  suds,  and  every  thing  else,  from  tea  and 
coffee  grounds  to  all  manner  of  picked  bones  and  other  refuse, 
were  dashed  down  from  these  tiers  of  balconies  to  the  ground 
below,  so  that  a  more  filthy  and  in  all  ways  unendurable  spec¬ 
tacle  can  scarcely  be  imagined,  than  was  presented  in  the  vicinity 
of  this  money-making  device,  this  miserable  house  refuge. 

Leaning  against  the  balusters,  smoking  and  jesting,  or  quar¬ 
reling  and  swearing,  were  groups  of  men,  who  might  be  counted 
by  tens  and  twenties ;  and  the  feeble  and  querulous  tones  of 
woman,  now  and  then,  were  heard  among  them,  or  from  within 
the  wretched  chambers.  A  little  apart  from  one  of  these 
groups  of  ignorant  disputants  sat  an  old  crone  combing  her 
gray  hair  by  the  light  of  a  tallow  candle,  other  females  were 
ironing,  or  washing  dishes,  while  others  lolled  listlessly  and 
gracelessly  about,  listening  to,  and  sometimes  taking  part  in, 
the  vile  or  savage  or  pitiable  conversations. 

Children,  half  naked,  were  playing  in  pools  of  stagnant 
water,  and  now  and  then  pelting  each  other  with  heads  of  fishes, 
and  with  slimy  bones,  caught  up  at  random  ;  and  one  group, 
more  vicious  than  the  others,  were  diverting  themselves  by 
throwing  stones  at  an  old  cat  that  lay  half  in  and  half  out  of  a 
puddle,  responding,  by  feeble  struggles,  as  the  rough  missiles 
struck  against  her,  and  here  and  there  were  going  on  such  fierce 
contests  of  brutish  force  as  every  day  illustrate  the  melancholy 
truth  that  the  poor  owe  so  much  of  their  misery  to  the  indul¬ 
gence  of  their  basest  passions,  rather  than  to  any  causes  neces¬ 
sarily  connected  with  poverty. 

Depravity,  as  well  as  poverty,  had  joined  itself  to  that  mis¬ 
erable  congregation.  Smoke  issued  thick  from  some  of  the 
chimneys,  full  of  the  odors  of  mutton  and  coffee,  and  as  these 
mixed  with  the  vile  stenches  that  thickened  the  atmosphere 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


59 


near  the  scene,  Helph,  who  had  been  accustomed  to  the  free 
air  of  the  country,  fresh  with  the  scents  of  the  hay-fields  and 
orchards,  found  it  hard  to  suppress  the  exclamation  of  disgust 
and  loathing  that  rose  to  his  lips,  when  he  turned  with  Jenny 
into  the  alley,  and  his  senses  apprehended  in  a  twinkling  what 
I  have  been  so  long  in  describing. 

O  O 

Up  the  steep  and  narrow  wooden  stairs,  flight  after  flight,  they 
passed,  catching  through  the  open  doors  of  the  different  apart¬ 
ments  glimpses  of  the  same  squalid  character — greasy  smoking 
stoves,  dirty  beds,  ragged  women  and  children,  with  here  and 
there  dozing  dogs,  or  men  prostrate  on  the  bare  floors — either 
from  weariness  or  drunkenness — and  m eagerly-spread  tables, 
and  cradles,  and  creeping,  and  crying,  and  sleeping  babies,  all 
in  close  proximity. 

From  the  third  landing  they  turned  into  a  side  door,  and  such 
a  picture  presented  itself  as  the  young  man  had  never  seen 
hitherto  :  the  windows  were  open,  but  the  atmosphere  was  close, 
and  had  a  disagreeable  smell  of  herbs  and  medicines  ;  a  single 
candle  was  lighted,  and  though  the  shapes  of  things  were  not 
distinctly  brought  out,  enough  was  visible  to  indicate  the  ex¬ 
treme  poverty  and  wretchedness  of  the  family. 

It  was  very  still  in  the  room,  for  the  children,  with  instinctive 
fear,  were  huddled  together  in  the  darkest  corner,  and  spoke  in 
whispers  when  they  spoke  at  all ;  and  the  mother,  patient  and 
pale  and  wan,  sat  silent  by  the  bed,  holding  the  chubby  sun¬ 
burned  hands  of  her  dying  little  boy. 

“Oh,  mother,”  said  Jenny,  treading  softly  and  speaking  low. 
Tears  filled  the  poor  woman’s  mild  blue  eyes,  and  her  lips 
trembled  as  she  answered,  “It  is  almost  over — he  does  not 
know  me  any  more.” 

And  forgetting,  in  the  blind  fondness  of  the  mother,  the 
darkness  and  the  sorrow  and  the  pain,  and  worst  of  all,  the  con¬ 
tagion  of  evil  example,  from  which  he  was  about  to  be  free, 
she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  shook  with  convulsive 
agony.  All  the  deprivation  and  weariness  and  despair,  that 
had  sometimes  made  her,  with  scarce  a  consciousness  of  what 
she  was  doing,  implore  the  coming  of  death,  or  annihilation,  were 
in  this  new  sorrow  as  nothing:  with  her  baby  laughing  in  her 


60 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


arms,  as  he  had  been  but  the  last  week,  she  would  be  strong  to 
front  the  most  miserable  fate. 

Tie  after  tie  may  be  unbound  from  the, heart,  while  our  steps 
climb  the  rough  steep  that  goes  up  to  power,  for  the  sweet 
household  affections  unwind  themselves  more  and  more  as  the 
distance  widens  between  aspiration  and  contentment,  and  over 
the  tide  that  sweeps  into  the  shining  haven  of  ambition  there 
is  no  crossing  back.  The  brow  that  has  felt  the  shadow  of  the 
laurel,  will  not  be  comforted  by  the  familiar  kisses  of  love ; 
and  struggling  to  the  heights  of  fame,  the  rumble  of  clods 
against  the  coffin  of  some  mate  of  long  ago,  comes  softened  of 
its  awfulest  terror ;  but  where  the  heart,  unwarped  from  its 
natural  yearnings,  presses  close,  till  its  throbbings  bring  up 
echoes  from  the  stony  bottom  of  the  grave,  and  when,  from 
the  heaped  mound,  reaches  a  shadow  that  darkens  the  world 
for  the  humble  eyes  that  may  never  look  up  any  more — these 
keep  the  bleeding  affections,  these  stay  the  mourning  that  the 
great  cannot  understand.  Where  the  wave  is  narrow,  the 
dropping  of  even  a  pebble  of  hope  sends  up  the  swelling  cir¬ 
cles  till  the  whole  bosom  of  the  stream  is  agitated ;  but  in  the 
broader  sea,  they  lessen  and  lessen  till  they  lose  themselves 
in  a  border  of  light.  And  over  that  little  life,  moaning  itself 
away  in  the  dim  obscurity  of  its  birth-chamber,  fell  bitterer 
tears,  and  bowed  hearts  aching  with  sharper  pains,  than  they 
may  ever  know  whose  joys  are  not  alike  as  simple  and  as  few. 
“Oh,  Willie,  dear  little  Willie,”  sobbed  Jenny,  folding  her 
arms  about  him  and  kissing  him  over  and  over,  “  speak  to  me 
once,  only  once  more  !”  Her  tears  were  hot  on  his  whitening 
face,  but  he  did  not  lift  his  heavily-drooping  eyes,  nor  turn  to¬ 
wards  her  on  the  pillow.  The  children  fell  asleep,  one  on 
another,  where  they  sat.  In  the  presence  of  the  strong  healthy 
man  they  were  less  afraid,  and  nestling  close  together,  gradu¬ 
ally  forgot  that  little  Willie  was  not  among  them — and  so  came 
the  good  gift  which  God  giveth  his  beloved  in  nights  of  sorrow. 

In  some  chink  of  the  wall  the  cricket  chirped  to  itself  the 
same  quick  short  sound,  over  and  over,  and  about  the  candle 
circled  and  fluttered  the  gray-winged  moths,  heedless  of  their 
perished  fellows,  and  on  the  table  stood  a  painted  bucket  half 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY.  61 

filled  with  tepid  water,  and  beside  it  a  brown  jug  and  broken 
glass. 

Now  and  then  the  mother  and  daughter  exchanged  anxious 
looks,  as  a  footstep  was  heard  on  the  stairs,  but  when  it  turned 
aside  to  some  one  of  the  adjoining  chambers,  they  resumed 
their  watching,  not  speaking  their  hopes  or  fears,  if  either  had 
been  awakened. 

From  the  white  dome  of  St.  Peter’s  sounded  the  silvery 
chime  of  the  midnight  ;  the  sick  child  had  fallen  asleep  an 
hour  before,  but  now  his  eyes  opened  full  on  his  mother,  and 
his  white  lips  worked  faintly  ;  “Jenny,”  she  said,  in  a  tone  of 
low  but  fearful  distinctness — for  with  her  head  on  the  bedside 
she  was  fast  dozing  into  forgetfulness — “he  is  going — going 
home.” 

“  Home,”  he  repeated,  sweetly,  and  that  was  the  last  word 
he  ever  said. 

The  young  man  came  forward  hastily — the  soft  light  of  a 
setting  star  drifted  across  the  pillow,  and  in  its  pale  radiance 
he  laid  the  hands  together,  and  smoothed  the  death-dampened 
curls. 


X. 

“  Oh,  my  children  !”  cried  Mrs.  Mitchel,  bending  over  the 
huddled  sleepers,  and  calling  them  one  by  one  to  awake,  “your 
poor  little  brother  is  dead — he  will  never  play  with  you  any 
more.” 

“  Let  them  sleep,”  said  J enny,  whose  grief  was  less  passion¬ 
ate,  “  they  cannot  do  him  any  good  now,  and  the  time  will  come 
soon  enough  that  they  cannot  sleep.” 

“  I  know  it,  oh,  I  know  it  1”  she  sobbed,  “  but  this  silence 
seems  so  terrible  ;  I  want  them  to  wake  and  speak  to  me,  and 
yet,”  she  added,  after  a  moment,  “  I  know  not  what  I  want.  I 
only  know  that  my  little  darling  will  not  wake  in  the  morn¬ 
ing.  Oh,”  she  continued,  “  he  was  the  loveliest  and  the  best  of 
all — he  never  cried  when  he  was  hurt,  like  other  children,  nor 
gave  me  trouble  in  any  way  ;”  and  she  then  recounted,  feeding 
her  sorrow  with  the  memory,  all  his  endearing  little  w’ays,  from 


62 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


his  first  conscious  shading  to  the  last  word  he  had  spoken  ;  num¬ 
bered  over  the  little  coats  he  had  worn,  and  the  color  of  them, 
saying  how  pretty  he  had  thought  the  blue  one,  and  how  proud 
he  had  been  of  the  pink  one  with  the  ruffled  sleeves,  and  how 
often  she  had  lifted  him  up  to  the  broken  looking-glass  to  see 
the  baby,  as  he  called  himself,  for  that  he  always  wanted  to 
see  the  curls  she  made* for  him.  Sometimes  she  had  crossed 
him;  she  wished  now  she  had  never  done  so;  and  sometimes 
she  had  neglected  him  when  she  had  thought  herself  too  busy 
to  attend. to  his  little  wants  ;  but  now  that  was  all  irreparable, 
she  blamed  herself  harshly,  and  thought  how  much  better  she 
might  have  done. 

The  first  day  of  his  sickness  she  had  scolded  him  for  being 
fretful,  and  put  him  roughly  aside  when  he  clung  about  her 
knees,  and  hindered  the  work  on  which  their  bread  depended  ; 
she  might  have  known  that  he  was  ailing,  she  said,  for  that  he 
was  always  good  when  well,  and  so  should  have  neglected  every 
thing  else  for  him ;  if  she  had  done  so  in  time,  if  she  had  tried 
this  medicine  or  that,  if  she  had  kept  his  head  bathed,  one  night, 
when  she  chanced  to  fall  asleep,  and  waked  with  his  calling  her 
“  mother,”  and  saying  the  fire  was  burning  him  ;  in  short,  if  she 
had  done  any  thing  she  had  not  dpne,  it  might  have  been  bet¬ 
ter,  her  darling  Willie  might  have  got  well. 

“  The  dear  baby,”  she  said,  taking  his  cold,  stiffening  feet 
in  her  hand,  “  he  never  had  any  shoes,  and  I  promised  so  often 
to  get  them.” 

“  He  does  not  need  them  now,”  interposed  Jenny. 

“I  know  it,  I  know  it,”  she  answered,  and  yet  she  could  not 
subdue  this  grief  that  her  boy  was  dead,  and  had  never  had  the 
shoes  that  he  thought  it  would  be  so  fine  to  have. 

“Oh,  mother,  do  not  cry  so,”  Jenny  said;  “I  will  come 
home  and  we  will  love  each  other  better,  we  who  are  left,  and 
work  together  and  try  to  live  till  God  takes  us  where  he  has 
taken  the  baby — home,  home  !”  but  in  repeating  his  dying 
words,  her  voice  faltered,  and  hiding  her  face  in  the  lap  of  her 
mother,  she  gave  way  to  agony  that  till  then  she  had  kept  down. 

But,  alas,  it  was  not  even  their  poor  privilege  to  weep  unin¬ 
terruptedly,  and,  shuddering,  they  grew  still  when,  slowly  and 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


63 


heavily  climbing  the  narrow  and  dark  stairs,  sounded  the  well- 
known  step  of  the  drunken  husband  and  father.  A  minute  the 
numb  and  clumsy  hand  fumbled  about  the  door-latch,  and  then 
with  a  hiccup,  and  a  half  articulate  oath,  the  man,  if  man  he 
should  be  called,  staggered  and  stumbled  into  the  room. 

Ilis  dull  brain  apprehended  the  case  but  imperfectly,  and 
seeing  his  wife,  he  supposed  her  to  be  waiting  for  him,  as  he 
had  found  her  a  thousand  times  before  ;  and  mixing  something 
of  old  fondness  with  a  coarse  and  brutal  familiarity,  he  put  his 
arm  about  her  neck,  saying,  “  Why  the  hell  are  you  waiting 
for  me,  Nancy,  when  you  know  them  fellers  won’t  never  let 
me  come  home]  Daughter,”  he  continued,  addressing  Jenny, 
“just  hand  me  that  jug,  that’s  a  good  girl,  I  feel  faint  like,” 
and  putting  his  hand  to  his  temple,  where  the  blood  was  oozing 
from  a  recent  cut,  he  finished  his  speech  with  an  oath. 

“Ilush,  father,  hush,”  beseechingly  said  the  girl,  pointing  to 
the  bed  ;  but  probably  supposing  she  meant  to  indicate  it  as  a 
resting-place  for  him,  he  reeled  towards  and  half  fell  upon  it, 
one  arm  thrown  across  the  dead  child,  and  the  blood  dripping 
from  his  bruised  and  distorted  face,  muttering  curses  and  threat¬ 
ening  revenge  against  the  comrades  who,  he  said  deprecatingly, 
made  him  drink  when  he  told  them  he  wanted  to  go  home,  d — n 
them  !  In  such  imprecations  and  excuses  he  fell  into  a  dreadful 
unconsciousness. 

Not  knowing  whom  else  to  call,  Helphenstein  summoned 
Aunt  Kitty,  and  with  the  aid  of  his  arm  and  a  crutch,  but  more 
than  all  leaning  on  her  own  zeal  to  do  good,  she  came,  and  in 
her  kindly  but  rude  fashion  comforted  the  mourners,  partly  by 
pictures  of  the  glory  “  ober  Jordan,”  and  partly  by  narratives 
of  the  terriblest  sufferings  she  had  known,  as  taking  the  child 
on  her  knees  she  dressed  it  for  the  grave,  decently  as  might  be. 

“  She  had  lost  a  baby,  too,”  she  said,  “  and  when  her  breasts 
were  aching  with  the  milk,  she  felt  as  if  she  wanted  to  be 
gwine  to  it  wdiarever  it  were,  for  that  she  couldn’t  ’xist  without 
it  no  ways,  but  she  did,  and  arter  a  while  she  got  over  it. 
Another  son,”  she  said,  “  was  spared  to  grow  up  and  do  a  heap 
of  hard  work;  he  was  away  from  her  a  piece  down  the  river, 
i  nd  kep  a  liberty  stable,  and  at  last,  when  he  had  saved  a’most 


64 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


money  enough,  to  buy  himself,  a  vile-tempered  critter  kicked 
out  his  brains,  and  dat  ar  was  his  last*  And  so/’  said  Aunt 
Kitty,  “  it  was  wust  for  de  one  dat  growed  up,  arter  all.” 

The  stars  grew  motionless,  the  heavy  clouds  loomed  in  som¬ 
bre  and  far-reaching  masses,  and  the  night  went  by  drearily, 
wearily,  painfully,  till  gray  began  to  divide  the  heavy  dark¬ 
ness,  and  through  the  gaps  of  the  thick  woods  away  over  the 
eastern  hills,  the  chilly  river  of  morning  light  came  pouring  in. 


XL 

The  funeral  was  over,  and  it  was  almost  night  when  Mr. 
Randall  returned  from  the  country,  having  availed  himself  more 
largely  of  the  horse  and  buggy  than  he  at  first  intended,  by 
taking  several  widely  separate  points,  where  errands  called  him, 
in  his  route.  Mrs.  Randall  came  too,  and  with  her  the  great 
basket,  but  not  empty,  as  she  had  taken  it. 

The  poor  animal  had  been  driven  mercilessly,  and,  dripping 
with  sweat,  and  breathing  hard,  gladly  turned  to  his  young 
master  and  rubbed  his  face  against  his  caressing  hand. 

It  was  no  very  cordial  greeting  which  the  son  gave  the 
parents,  and  they  in  turn  were  little  pleased  with  him,  for  any 
special  liking  is  not  to  be  concealed  even  from  the  commonest 
apprehension,  and  the  attachment'  of  Helph  and  Jenny  had 
lately  become  an  unquestionable  fact. 

“  What  in  the  devil’s  name  are  we  to  do  with  that  girl,  mo¬ 
ther  ?  she  don’t  earn  her  salt,”  said  Mr.  Randall. 

Their  first  inquiries  on  entering  the  house  had  been  for  Jenny, 
and  Helph,  with  provoking  purpose,  had  simply  said  she  was 
not  at  home.  Words  followed  words,  sharper  and  fastw,  until 
Mr.  Randall,  with  an  affirmation  that  need  not  be  repeated,  said 
he  would  suffer  his  house  to  be  her  home  no  longer ;  if  she 
could  not  be  trusted  with  the  care  of  it  for  a  day,  she  was  not 
worthy  to  have  any  better  place  than  the  pig-sty  in  which  her 
parents  lived. 

“  I  always  told  you,”  interposed  the  wife,  “  that  girl  was  a 
mean,  low-lived  thing;  and  it  was  none  of  my  doings,  the  taking 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTLN'G  PARTY. 


65 


her  from  the  washing-tub,  where  she  belongs,  and  making  her 
as  good  as  any  of  us.  I  tell  you  them  kind  of  folks  must  be 
kept  down,  and  I  always  told  you  so.” 

“You  always  told  me  great  things,”  said  the  husband,  color¬ 
ing  with  rage;  “what  in  the  devil’s  name  is  there  you  don’t 
tell  me,  or  you  don’t  know,  1  wonder  !” 

“  Well,  sir,”  she  answered,  speaking  with  a  subdued  sullen¬ 
ness,  “  there  is  one  thing  I  did  not  know  till  it  was  too  late.” 

With  all  his  blustering,  Mr.  Randall  was  a  coward  and 
craven  at  heart,  and  turning  to  the  sideboard  he  imbibed  a 
deeper  draught  of  brandy  than  usual,  diverting  his  indignation 
to  Jenny,  whom  he  called  a  poor  creep-louse,  that  had  infested 
his  home  long  enough. 

“  If  you  were  not  my  father,”  answered  Ilelph,  who  had 
inherited  a  temper  capable  of  being  ungovernably  aroused, 
“  I’d  beat  you  with  as  good  a  will  as  I  ever  beat  iron  to  a 
horse-shoe.” 

“  What  in  the  devil’s  name  is  the  girl  to  you,  I’d  like  to 
know  V* 

“Before  you  are  a  month  older  you  will  find  out  what  she 
is  to  me,”  replied  the  youth,  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full 
height,  and  passing  his  hand  proudly  across  his  beard. 

“  My  son,  your  father  has  a  great  deal  to  irritate  him,  and 
he  is  hasty  sometimes,  but  let  bygones  be  bygones;  but  what 
business  had  the  girl  away  V 

And  with  a  trembling  hand,  Mr.  Randall  presented  a  glass 
of  brandy  as  a  kind  of  peace-offering  to  his  son.  But,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  the  young  man  refused  ;  he  had  seen  its 
brutalizing  effects  the  previous  night,  saw  them  then,  and  had 
determined  to  be  warned  in  time.  In  answer  to  the  question  re¬ 
specting  Jenny,  however,  he  related  briefly  and  simply  the  melan¬ 
choly  event  which  had  called  and  still  detained  her  from  her 
usual  employments. 

“A  good  thing,”  said  Mr.  Randall;  “one  brat  less  to  be 
taken  care  of ;  but  that’s  no  reason  the  girl  should  stay  away ; 
if  the  young  one  is  dead,  she  can’t  bring  it  to  life,  nor  dig  a 
hole  to  put  it  in,  either.” 

Mrs.  Randall,  having  adjusted  her  lace  cap,  and  ordered 


60 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Aunt  Kitty  to  keep  the  basket  out  of  the  reach  of  the  big 
boys,  and  to  remember  and  not  eat  all  there  was  in  it  herself, 
ascended  the  stairs  to  ascertain  how  Jenny  had  progressed  with 
her  shirt-making. 

Such  family  altercations,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  are  exceedingly 
rare ;  but  I  have  not  exaggerated  the  common  experience  of 
these  specimens  of  the  “  self-made  aristocracy.”  Ignorant,  pas¬ 
sionate,  vulgar — nothing  elevated  them  from  the  lowest  grade 
of  society  but  money,  and  this  was  in  most  cases  an  irresistible 
influence  in  their  favor. 

In  all  public  meetings,  especially  those  having  any  reference 
to  the  poor,  Mr.  Randall  was  apt  to  be  a  prominent  personage; 
on  more  occasions  than  one  he  had  set  down  large  figures  for 
charitable  purposes ;  in  short,  his  position  was  that  of  an  emi¬ 
nently  liberal  and  honorable  citizen,  when,  in  fact,  a  man  guilty 
of  more  little  meannesses  and  knaveries,  a  man  in  all  wavs 
so  debased,  could  scarcely  anywhere  be  found.  The  drunkard 
whom  he  affected  to  despise  had  often  a  less  depraved  appe¬ 
tite  than  his  own,  and  though  he  did  not  reel  and  stagger  and 
lie  in  the  gutter,  it  was  only  an  habitual  indulgence  in  strong 
drinks  which  rendered  him  superior  to  their  more  debilitat¬ 
ing  effects.  He  lay  on  the  sofa  at  home,  and  swore  and  grum¬ 
bled  and  hiccuped,  and  drank,  and  drank,  and  drank.  His 
children  did  not  respect  him,  and  how  could  they,  when  the 
whole  course  of  his  conduct  was  calculated  to  inspire  disgust 
and  loathing  in  every  heart  endowed  with  any  natural  ideas  of 
right.  The  two  bullying  and  beardless  sons  who  had  grown  up 
under  his  immediate  influence,  were  precociously  wicked,  and 
possessed  scarcely  a  redeeming  quality,  and  the  younger  ones 
were  treading  close  in  their  footsteps. 

Helph,  however,  had  some  of  the  more  ennobling  attributes 
of  manhood.  He  was  blunt  and  plain  and  rustic  to  be  sure, 
but  he  was  frank  and  honest  and  sincere,  industrious,  sober, 
and  affectionate,  alike  averse  to  the  exactions  and  impositions 
of  his  mother,  and  the  pitiful  penuriousness  of  his  father, 
lie  was  neither  ashamed  of  the  toil-hardened  hands  that  earned 
his  daily  bread,  nor  proud  because  his  mother’s  earrings  dan¬ 
gled  to  her  shoulders,  or  that  her  dress  was  gay  and  expensive, 


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67 


or  that  his  father  was  president  of  a  bank,  and  lived  in  a  fine 
house.  Independent  and  straightforward,  and  for  the  most  part 
saving  enough,  so  that  he  might  give  himself  some  trouble  to 
find  a  lost  shilling,  yet  where  he  saw  actual  need,  he  would  give 
it,  with  as  much  pleasure  as  he  had  in  finding  it. 

Toward  evening  Jenny  returned  home,  pale  and  sad  and  suffer¬ 
ing,  but  there  were  no  little  kindnesses,  nor  any  softness  of  word 
or  manner  to  greet  her  ;  she  was  required  at  once  to  resume  her 
work,  and  admonished  to  retrieve  lost  time,  for  -  that  crying 
would  only  make  her  sick,  and  do  no  good ;  Helph,  however, 
subdued  his  bluff  gentleness  into  tenderness  never  manifested  for 
her  before,  and  his  occasional  smile,  through  tears,  was  an  over 
payment  for  the  cruelty  of  the  rest. 

Mr.  Randall  and  his  wife  began  to  be  seriously  alarmed,  lest 
a  hasty  marriage  of  the  parties  should  bring  on  themselves 
irretrievable  disgrace.  A  long  consultation  was  held,  therefore, 
and  it  was  resolved  to  postpone,  by  pretended  acquiescence, 
any  clandestine  movement,  until  time  could  be  gained  to  frus¬ 
trate  hopelessly  the  design  which  was  evidently  meditated  by 
the  son. 

“  We  have  been  talking  of  our  own  love,”  said  they  ;  “how 
hard  we  should  have  thought  it  to  be  parted  ;  and  seeing  that 
you  really  are  attached  to  each  other,  we  oppose  no  obstacle  ; 
a  little  delay  is  all  we  ask  :  Jenny  shall  go  to  school  for  a  year, 
and  you,  Helph,  will  have,  by-and-by,  more  experience,  and 
more  means,  perhaps,  at  your  command.” 

Much  more  they  said,  in  this  conciliatory  way  ;  the  dishon¬ 
esty  was  successful ;  and  that  night,  instead  of  stealing  away 
together  as  they  had  proposed,  Helph  slept  soundly  in  his 
country  home,  and  Jenny  dreamed  bright  dreams  of  coming 
years. 


XII. 

Midnight  overspread  the  city ;  the  clouds  hung  low  and 
gloomy,  and  the  atmosphere  was  close  and  oppressive,  when  a 
man  past  the  prime  of  life,  miserably  clad,  might  have  been 
seen  stealthily  threading  through  by-ways  and  alleys,  now 


68 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


stopping  and  looking  noiselessly  backward  and  forward,  and 
then,  with  trembling  and  unsteady  steps,  gliding  forward.  ITe 
wore  no  hat,  his  gray  hair  was  matted,  and  over  one  eye  was 
a  purple  and  ghastly  cut,  from  which  he  seemed  to  have  torn 
the  bandage,  for  in  one  hand  he  held  a  cloth  spotted  with  blood. 
He  apparently  thought  himself  followed  by  an  enemy,  from 
whom  he  was  endeavoring  to  escape,  and  now  and  then  he  hud¬ 
dled  in  some  dark  nook  whence  his  eyes,  bright  with  insanity, 
peered  vigilantly  about.  So,  by  fits  and  starts,  he  made  his 
wTay  to  the  old  graveyard  where  the  poor  are  buried.  The 
trees  stood  still  together,  for  there  was  scarcely  a  breath  of  air, 
and  he  proceeded  noiselessly  among  the  monuments  and  crosses 
and  low  headstones,  never  pausing,  till  he  came  to  a  little  new 
grave,  the  rounded  mound  of  which  was  smooth  and  fresh  as  if 
it  had  been  raised  but  a  single  hour. 

“  Here,”  he  said,  squatting  on  the  ground  and  digging  madly 
but  feebly  into  the  earth  with  his  hands,  “here  is  the  very  place 
they  put  him,  d — n  them  !  but  his  mother  shall  have  him  back  ; 
I  ain’t  so  drunk  that  I  can’t  dig  him  up and  pausing  now  and 
then  to  listen,  he  soon  levelled  the  heap  of  earth  above  his 
child. 

“In  God’s  name,  what  are  you  doing  ?”  exclaimed  an  au- 
thoritative  voice,  and  a  club  was  struck  forcibly  against  the 
board  fence  hard  by.  Howling  an  impious  imprecation,  the 
frightened  wretch  rushed  blindly  and  headlong  across  the 
graves,  leaped  the  fence  like  a  tiger,  and  disappeared  in  the 
hollow  beyond.  An  hour  afterwards  he  had  gained  the  valley 
which  lies  a  mile  or  two  northwest  of  the  city,  and  along  which 
a  creek,  sometimes  slow  and  sluggish,  and  sometimes  deep  and 
turbulent,  drags  and  hurries  itself  toward  the  brighter  waters 
of  the  Ohio. 

The  white-trunked  sycamores  leaned  toward  each  other  across 
the  stream,  the  broad  faded  leaves  dropping  slowly  slantwise 
to  the  ground,  as  the  wind  slipped  damp  and  silent  from  bough 
to  bough.  Here  and  there  the  surface  of  the  water  was  dark¬ 
ened  by  rifts  of  foliage  that,  lodged  among  brushwood,  gave 
shelter  to  the  cheeky  blacksnake  and  the  white-bellied  toad. 
Huge  logs  that  had  drifted  together  in  the  spring  freshet,  lay 


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69 


black  and  rotting  in  the  current,  with  noxious  weeds  springing 
rank  from  their  decay. 

Toward  the  deepest  water  the  wretched  creature  seemed 
irresistibly  drawn,  and  holding  with  one  hand  to  a  sapling  that 
grew  in  the  bank,  he  leaned  far  out  and  tried  the  depth  with  a 
slender  pole.  He  then  retreated,  and  seemed  struggling  as  with 
a  fierce  temptation,  but  drew  near  again  and  with  his  foot 
broke  off  shelving  weights  of  earth,  and  watched  their  plashing 
and  sinking;  a  moment  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  heaven — there 
was  a  heavier  plunge — and  he  was  gone  from  the  bank.  A  wild 
cry  rose  piercing  through  the  darkness  ;  the  crimson  top  of  a 
clump  of  iron  weeds  that  grew  low  in  the  bank  was  drawn  sud¬ 
denly  under  the  water,  as  if  the  hand  reached  for  help,  then  the 
cry  and  the  plashing  were  still,  and  the  waves  closed  together. 
A  week  afterwards  the  swollen  corpse  of  Jenny’s  father  was 
drawn  from  the  stream. 

XIII. 

All  the  boyish  habits -of  Ilelph  were  at  once  thrown  aside, 
and  much  Aunt  Wetherbe  marveled  when  she  saw  him  a  day 
or  two  after  his  return  from  the  city,  bring  forth  from  the  cel* 
lar  a  little  sled  on  which,  in  all  previous  winters,  he  had  been 
accustomed  (out  of  the  view  of  the  highway,  it  is  true),  to  ride 
down  hill. 

“  What  on  airth  now  V’  she  said,  placing  her  hands  on  either 
hip,  and  eyeing  him  in  sorrowful  amazement.  A  great  deal  of 
pains  had  been  lavished  on  the  making  of  the  sled,  the  runners 
were  shod  with  iron,  and  it  was  nicely  painted  ;  indeed,  Helph 
had  considered  it  a  specimen  of  the  best  art,  in  its  way,  and  now, 
as  he  dragged  it  forth  to  light,  dusting  it  with  his  handkerchief, 
and  brushing  the  spider-webs  from  among  its  slender  beams,  he 
found  it  haid  to  suppress  the  old  admiration  for  his  beautiful 
handiwork.  Nevertheless,  when  he  found  himself  observed,  he 
gave  it  a  rough  throw,  which  lodged  it,  broken  and  ruined, 
among  some  rubbish,  and  drawing  his  hat  over  his  eyes  to  con¬ 
ceal  from  them  the  wreck,  he  strode  away  without  at  all  | 
noticing  his  aunt,  who  immediately  went  in  search  of  her 


70 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


good  man,  who,  in  her  estimation  at  least,  knew  almost  every 
thing,  to  ask  an  explanation,  of  the  boy’s  unaccountable  con¬ 
duct. 

But  the  strange  freaks  of  the  young  man  were  not  yet  at  an 
end,  and  on  returning  to  the  house  he  took  from  a  nail  beneath 
the  looking-glass,  where  they  had  long  hung,  the  admiration  of 
all  visitors,  a  string  of  speckled  birds’  eggs  and  the  long  silvery 
skin  of  a  snake,  and  threw  them  carelessly  into  the  fire,  thereby 
sending  a  sharp  pang  through  the  heart  of  Aunt  Wetherbe,  if 
not  through  his  own.  lie  next  took  from  the  joist  a  bundle  of 
arrows  and  darts,  the  latter  cut  in  fanciful  shapes,  which  he  had 
made  at  various  times  to  amuse  his  leisure,  and  crushed  them 
together  in  a  box  of  kindlings,  saying,  in  answer  to  the  remon¬ 
strance  of  his  relation,  that  was  all  they  were  good  for. 

From  the  pockets  of  coats  and  trowsers  he  was  observed  at 
various  times  to  make  sundry  ejectments,  embracing  all  such 
trinkets  as  one  is  apt  to  accumulate  during  boyish  years,  to¬ 
gether  with  bits  of  twine,  brass-headed  nails,  and  other  treasures 
that  are  prized  by  youths  disposed  to  be  industrious  and  provi¬ 
dent.  But  when  he  brought  from  an  out-house  a  squirrel’s 
cage,  where  many  a  captive  had  been  civilized  into  tricks  never 
dreamed  of  in  his  wild  swingings  from  bough  to  bough,  Aunt 
Wetherbe  took  it  from  his  hands,  just  as  she  would  have  done 
when  he  was  a  wayward  child,  exclaiming  with  real  displeasure, 
“ Lord-a-mercy,  child  !  has  the  old  boy  himself  got  into  you?” 
But  Helph  soon  proved  that  he  was  not  possessed  of  the  evil 
one,  by  the  manliness  with  which  he  talked  of  the  coming  elec¬ 
tion,  discussing  shrewdly  the  merits  of  candidates  and  parties, 
and  of  such  other  subjects  as  he  seemed  to  think  deserving  of  a 
manly  consideration.  All  the  implements  necessary  to  shaving 
operations  were  shortly  procured,  and  Helph  was  observed  to 
spend  much  of  his  time  in  their  examination  and  careful  pre¬ 
paration,  though  no  special  necessity  for  their  use  was  observa¬ 
ble,  and  hitherto  the  old  razor  of  his  uncle  had  only  now  and 
then  been  brought  into  requisition  by  him. 

When  the  first  flush  of  conscious  manhood  had  subsided,  a 
j  thoughtful  and  almost  sorrowful  feeling  pervaded  the  dreams 
of  the  young  man  ;  he  was  much  alone,  knit  his  brows,  and 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


71 


answered  vaguely  when  questioned.  At  last  he  abruptly  an 
nounced  his  intention  of  beginning  the  world  for  himself.  He 
would  sell  his  horse,  and  the  various  farming  implements  he 
possessed,  together  with  the  pair  of  young  oxen  which  he  had 
played  with  and  petted,  and  taught  to  plow  and  draw  the  cart, 
and  with  the  means  thus  acquired  he  would  procure  a  small 
shop  in  the  vicinity  of  the  city,  and  there  resume  his  black- 
smithing. 

“  Tut,  tut,”  said  the  aunt,  “  I ’d  rather  you  would  steal  away 
from  the  splitting  of  oven-wood  and  the  churning  of  a  morn¬ 
ing,  just  as  you  used  to  do,  to  set  quail  traps  and  shoot  at  a 
mark,  than  to  be  talking  in  this  way.  Your  uncle  and  me 
can’t  get  along  without  you  :  no,  no,  my  child,  you  must  n’t 
think  of  going.” 

Ilelph  brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  appealing  to  the 
authority  which  had  always  been  absolute  ;  and  removing  his 
spectacles,  the  good  old  man  rubbed  them  carefully  through 
the  corner  of  his  handkerchief  as  he  said,  sadly  blit  decidedly, 
“Yes,  my  son,  you  have  made  a  w’ise  resolve:  you  are  almost 
a  man  now  (here  the  youth’s  face  colored),  and  it’s  time  you 
were  beginning  to  work  for  yourself  and  be  a  man  amongst 
men  and  approaching  an  old-fashioned  walnut  desk  in  which 
were  kept  all  manner  of  yellow  and  musty  receipts  and  letters, 
he  unlocked  it  slowly,  and  pouring  from  a  stout  linen  bag  a 
quantity  of  silver,  counted  the  dollars  to  the  number  of  a  hun¬ 
dred,  and  placing  them  in  the  hand  of  the  young  man,  he  said, 
“A  little  present  to  help  you  on  in  the  world;  make  good  use 
of  it,  my  boy  ;  but  above  all  things,  continue  in  the  honest, 
straight  path  in  which  you  have  always  kept,  and  my  word  for 
it,  prosperity  will  come  to  you,  even  though  you  have  but  a 
small  beginning.  I  have  lived  to  be  an  old  man,”  he  continued, 
“  and  I  have  never  seen  the  righteous  forsaken,  nor  his  seed 
begging  bread.” 

Boyishly,  Ilelph  began  drawing  figures  rapidly  on  the  table 
with  his  finger,  for  he  felt  the  tears  coming,  but  it  would  not 
do,  and  looking  rather  than  speaking  his  thanks,  he  hurried 
from  the  house,  and  for  an  hour  chopped  vigorously  at  the 
wood-pile. 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


72 

It  was  soon  concluded  to  hurry  the  preparations  for  his  de¬ 
parture,  so  that  he  might  get  fairly  settled  before  the  coming 
on  of  cold  weather,  and  a  list  of  goods  and  chattels  to  be  sold 
at  public  vendue,  on  a  specified  day,  was  made  out,  and  bills 
posted  on  the  school-house,  at  the  cross-roads,  and  in  the  bar¬ 
room  of  the  tavern,  stating  the  time  and  place  of  sale.  Ellen 
Blake  was  sent  for  in  haste  to  come  right  away  and  make  up 
half  a  dozen  shirts,  and  the  provident  old  lady  briskly  plied  the 
knitting-needles,  that  her  nephew  might  lack  for  nothing.  All 
talked  gayly  of  the  new  project,  but  the  gayety  was  assumed, 
and  Ellen  herself,  with  all  her  powers  of  making  sombre  things 
take  cheerful  aspects,  felt  that  in  this  instance  she  did  not  suc¬ 
ceed. 

Now  that  he  was  about  to  part  with  them,  the  gay  young 
horse  that  had  eaten  so  often  from  his  hand,  and  the  two  gentle 
steers  that  had  bowed  their  necks  beneath  the  heavy  yoke  at 
his  bidding,  seemed  to  the  young  master  almost  humanly  en¬ 
deared,  and  he  fed  and  caressed  them  morning  and  evening  with 
unusual  solicitude,  tossing  them  oat  sheaves  and  emptying 
measures  of  corn  very  liberally. 

“Any  calves  or  beef  cattle  to  sell,”  called  a  coarse,  loud 
voice  to  Helph,  as  he  lingered  near  the  stall  of  his  oxen,  the 
evening  preceding  the  day  of  sale. 

“No,”  answered  the  young  man,  seeing  that  it  was  a  butcher 
who  asked  the  question. 

“  I  saw  an  advertisement  of  oxen  to  be  sold  here  to-morrow,” 
said  the  man,  striking  his  spurred  heel  against  his  horse,  and 
reining  him  in  with  a  jerk. 

“I  prefer  selling  to  a  farmer,”  said  Helph,  as  he  leaned 
against  the  broad  shoulders  of  one  of  the  steers,  and  took  in 
his  hand  its  horn  of  greenish  white. 

“  My  money  is  as  good  as  any  man’s,”  said  the  butcher,  and 
throwing  himself  from  the  saddle  he  approached  the  stall,  and 
after  walking  once  or  twice  around  the  unconsciously  doomed 
animals,  and  pinching  their  hides  with  his  fingers,  he  offered 
for  them  a  larger  sum  than  Helph  expected  ;  he  however 
shut  his  eyes  to  the  proposed  advantage,  saying  he  hoped 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


78 


to  sell  them  to  some  neighbor  who  would  keep  them  and  be 
kind  to  them. 

A  half  contemptuous  laugh  answered,  in  part,  as  the  butcher 
turned  away,  saying  he  was  going  further  into  the  country,  and 
would  call  on  his  return — they  might  not  be  sold. 

Thus  far,  Helph  had  not  advised  with  Jenny  relative  to  the 
new  movement  he  was  about  making,  but  when  all  arrangements 
were  made,  and  it  was  quite  too  late  to  retract,  he  resolved  to 
ask  her  advice ;  and  I  suspect  in  this  conduct  he  was  not  acting 
without  a  precedent. 

From'  among  a  bunch  of  quills  that  had  remained  in  the 
old  desk  from  time  immemorial,  he  selected  one,  with  great 
care,  and  having  rubbed  his  pocket-knife  ,  across  the  end  of  his 
boot  for  an  hour  or  more,  next  began  a  search  for  ink,  of  which 
his  uncle  told  him  there  was  a  good  bottle  full  on  the  upper 
shelf  of  the  cupboard.  But  the  said  bottle  was  not  to  be  found, 
and  after  a  good  deal  of  rummaging  and  some  questioning  of 
Aunt  Wetherbe,  it  was  finally  ascertained  that  the  ink  alluded 
to  must  have  been  bought  ten  or  twelve  years  previously,  and 
that  only  some  dry  powder  remained  of  it  now  in  the  bottom 
of  a  broken  inkstand  :  yet  to  this  a  little  vinegar  was  added, 
and  having  shaken  it  thoroughly,  the  young  man  concluded  it 
would  answer.  More  than  once  during  all  this  preparation,  he  had 
been  asked  what  he  was  going  to  do,  for  writing  was  not  done 
in  the  family  except  on  eventful  occasions ;  but  the  question 
elicited  no  response  more  direct  than  “  Nothing  much,”  and  so, 
at  last,  with  a  sheet  of  foolscap,  ink,  and  a  quill,  he  retired  to  his 
own  room — Aunt  Wetherbe  having  first  stuck  a  pin  in  the  can¬ 
dle,  indicating  the  portion  he  was  privileged  to  burn. 

Whether  more  or  less  candle  were  consumed,  I  am  not  ad¬ 
vised,  but  that  a  letter  was  written,  I  have  good  authority  for 
believing.  Murder  will  out,  there  is  no  doubt  about  that,  and 
the  day  following  the  writing,  Aunt  Wetherbe  chanced  to  have 
occasion  to  untie  a  bundle  of  herbs  that,  in  a  pillow-case,  had 
been  suspended  from  the  ceiling  of  Helph’s  room  for  a  long 
time,  and  what  should  she  find  but  a  letter  addressed  to  Jenny 
Mitchel,  fantastically  folded  and  sealed  with  four  red  wafers;  it 
had  evidently  been  placed  there  to  await  a  secret  opportunity 

4 


74 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


of  conveyance  to  the  post-office.  Long  was  the  whispered  con¬ 
ference  between  the  old  lady  and  Ellen,  that  followed  this  dis¬ 
covery ;  very  indignant  was  the  aunt,  at  first,  for  old  people 
are  too  apt  to  think  of  love  and  marriage  in  the  young  as  highly 
improper  ;  but  Ellen,  whose  regard  for  matrimony  was  certainly 
more  lenient,  exerted  her  liveliest  influence  in  behalf  of  the 
young  people,  nor  were  her  efforts  unsuccessful,  and  an  unob¬ 
trusive  silence  on  the  subject  was  resolved  upon. 

During  this  little  excitement  in  doors,  there  was  much  noise 
and  bustle  without;  Helph’s  young  horse  was  gayly  capari¬ 
soned,  and  bearing  proudly  various  riders  up  and  down  the 
space,  where,  among  plows,  harrows,  scythes,  and  other  agricul¬ 
tural  implements,  a  number  of  farmers  were  gathered,  discuss¬ 
ing  politics,  smoking,  and  shrewdly  calculating  how  much  they 
could  afford  to  bid  for  this  or  that  article.  Yoked  together,  and 
chewing  their  cuds  very  contentedly,  stood  the  plump  young 
oxen,  but  no  one  admired  them  with  the  design  of  purchasing. 
The  vendue  was  soon  over,  and  all  else  had  been  sold,  readily 
and  well.  The  sleek  bay  was  gone,  proudly  arching  his  neck 
to  the  hand  of  a  new  master,  and  the  neighbors  brought  their 
teams  to  carry  home  whatever  they  had  purchased,  and  Helph 
half  sighed  as  one  after  another  put  into  his  hand  the  money 
for  which  he  had  bargained  away  the  familiar  treasures  which 
had  been  a  part  of  his  existence. 

As  he  lingered  at  the  style,  he  saw  approaching  a  large  flock 
of  sheep,  closely  huddled  together,  and  with  red  chalk  marks 
on  their  sides  indicating  their  destiny ;  while  behind  came  a 
mingled  group  of  oxen,  cows  and  calves,  all  driven  by  the  san¬ 
guinary  butcher  with  whom  he  had  refused  to  treat  for  his 
favorites. 

u  Well,  neighbor,’’  he  said,  thrusting  his  hand  in  his  pocket 
and  drawing  thence  a  greasy  leathern  pouch,  “I  see  you  have 
kept  the  cattle  for  me  after  all.” 

At  first  Helph  positively  declined  selling  them,  but  he  did 
not  want  them ;  it  was  very  uncertain  when  there  would  be  an 
opportunity  of  disposing  of  them  as  he  wished,  and  when  the 
butcher  added  something  to  his  first  liberal  offer,' he  replied, 
“  I  suppose,  sir,  you  will  have  to  take  them.”  Riding  into  the 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


75 


yard,  he  drove  them  roughly  forth  with  whip  and  voice,  from 
the  manger  of  hay  and  the  deep  bed  of  straw.  They  were  free 
from  the  yoke,  and  yet  they  came  side  by  side,  and  with  their 
heads  bowed  close  together,  just  as  they  had  been  accustomed 
to  work.  Passing  their  young  master,  they  turned  towards  him 
their  great  mournful  eyes,  reproachfully,  he  thought,  and  crush¬ 
ing  the  price  of  them  in  his  hand,  he  walked  hastily  in  the  direc¬ 
tion  of  the  house. 

“  The  bad,  old  wretch,”  exclaimed  Ellen,  looking  after  the 
butcher,  as  she  stood  on  the  porch,  wiping  her  eyes  with  the 
sleeve  of  the  shirt  she  was  making ;  and  just  within  the  door  sat 
Aunt  Wetherbe,  her  face  half  concealed  within  a  towel,  and 
crying  like  a  child. 

A  week  more,  and  Helph  was  gone,  Ellen  still  remaining 
with  the  old  people,  till  they  should  get  a  little  accustomed  to 
their  desolate  home.  The  tears  shed  over  his  departure  were 
not  yet  dry,  for  he  had  left  in  the  morning  and  it  was  now 
dusky  evening,  when,  as  the  little  family  assembled  round  the 
tea-table,  he  entered,  with  a  hurried  and  anxious  manner  that 
seemed  to  preface  some  dismal  tidings. 

Poor  youth  !  his  heart  was  almost  breaking.  He  had  no  con¬ 
cealments  now,  and  very  frankly  told  the  story  of  his  love,  and 
what  had  been  his  purposes  for  the  future.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ran¬ 
dall  had  suddenly  given  up  their  house,  gone  abroad,  and  taken 
Jenny  with  them,  under  pretext  of  giving  her  a  thorough  educa¬ 
tion  in  England.  But  the  young  lover  felt  instinctively  that  she 
was  separated  from  him  for  a  widely  different  purpose.  And 
poor  faithful  Aunt  Kitty,  she  had  been  dismissed  without  a  shil¬ 
ling  above  her  scanty  earnings,  to  work,  old  and  disabled  as  she 
was,  or  die  like  a  beggar.  After  much  inquiry,  he  had  learned 
that  she  had  obtained  an  engagement  at  an  asylum,  as  an  atten¬ 
dant  on  the  sick. 

“Dear  old  soul!”  said  Aunt  Wetherbe,  “you  must  go  right 
away  in  the  morning  and  bring  her  here ;  she  shan't  be  left  to 
suffer,  and  I  know  of  it.” 

“  Never  mind — all  will  come  out  bright,”  said  Ellen,  as  Helph 
sat  that  night  on  the  porch,  alone  and  sorrowful. 

But  he  would  not  be  comforted  :  Jenny  had  not  left  a  single 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


1  6 

line  to  give  him  assurance  and  hope,  and  even  if  she  tnought  of 
him  now,  she  would  forget  him  in  the  new  life  that  was  before 
her.  All  this  was  plausible,  but  Ellen’s  efforts  were  not  entirely 
without  effect;  and  when  she  offered  to  go  with  him  to  the  city 
and  see  Aunt  Kitty,  who  perhaps  might  throw  some  light  on 
the  sudden  movement,  he  began  to  feel  hopeful  and  cheerful 
almost :  for  of  all  eyes,  those  of  a  lover  are  the  quickest  to  see 
light  or  darkness. 

Some  chance  prevented  the  fulfilment  of  Ellen’s  promise,  and 
I  was  commissioned  by  her  to  perform  the  task  she  had  proposed 
for  herself.  “  It  will  help  to  keep  him  up,  like,”  she  said,  “  if 
you  go  along.”  A  day  or  two  intervened  before  I  could  conve¬ 
niently  leave  home,  but  at  last  we  set  out,  on  a  clear  frosty 
morning  of  the  late  autumn.  Behind  the  one  seat  of  the  little 
wagon  in  which  we  rode,  was  placed  an  easy  chair  for  Aunt 
Kitty.  A  brisk  drive  of  an  hour  brought  us  to  the  hospital ; 
and  pleasing  ourselves  with  thoughts  of  the  happy  surprise  we 
were  bringing  to  the  poor  forlorn  creature,  we  entered  the 
parlor,  and  on  inquiry  were  told  we  had  come  too  late — she 
had  died  half  an  hour  before  our  arrival,  in  consequence  of 
a  fall  received  the  previous  evening  in  returning  from  the  dead- 
house,  whither  she  had  assisted  in  conveying  a  body.  “  I  have 
ordered  her  to  be  decently  dressed,”  said  the  superintendent, 
“  from  my  own  things ;  she  was  so  good,  I  thought  that  little 
enough  to  do  for  her and  she  led  the  way  to  the  sick  ward, 
where  Aunt  Kitty  awaited  to  be  claimed  and  buried  by  her 
friends.  It  was  a  room  fifty  or  sixty  feet  Jong,  and  twenty 
perhaps  in  width,  lined  on  either  side  with  a  long  row  of  nar¬ 
row  dirty  beds,  some  of  them  empty,  but  most  of  which  were 
filled  with  pale  and  miserable  wretches — some  near  dying, 
some  groaning,  some  propped  on  pillows  and  seeming  stolidly 
to  regard  the  fate  of  others  and  of  themselves.  The  sun 
streamed  hot  through  the  uncurtained  windows,  and  the  atmos¬ 
phere  was  pervaded  with  offensive  smells. 

As  my  eye  glanced  down  the  long  tiers  of  beds  where  there 
was  so  much  suffering,  it  was  arrested  by  the  corpse  of  the 
poor  old  woman — gone  at  last  to  that  land  where  there  are  no 
more  masters,  no  more  servants.  I  shuddered  and  stood  still 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


11 

as  the  two  shrivelled  and  haglike  women  wrapped  and  pinned 
the  sheet  about  the  stiffening  limbs,  with  as  much  glee,  imbecile 
almost,  but  frightful,  as  they  apparently  were  capable  of  feel¬ 
ing  or  expressing.  “  What  in  Heaven’s  name  are  you  laugh¬ 
ing  at'?”  said  Helph,  approaching  them.  “Just  to  think  of 
sarving  a  dead  nigger !”  said  one,  with  a  revolting  simper ;  but 
looking  in  his  face,  she  grew  respectful  with  a  sudden  recollec¬ 
tion,  and  drew  from  her  pocket  a  sealed  letter,  saying,  “  May 
be  you  can  tell  who  this  is  for — we  found  it  in  her  bosom  when 
we  went  to  dress  her.”  It  was  a  letter  from  Jenny  to  himself : 
poor  Aunt  Kitty  had  been  faithful  to  the  last. 

Not  till  I  was  turning  from  that  terriblest  shelter  of  woe  I 
ever  saw,  did  I  notice  a  young  and  pale-cheeked  girl,  sitting 
near  the  door,  on  a  low  and  rude  rocking-chair,  and  holding 
close  to  her  bosom  an  infant  but  a  few  days  old  :  not  with  a 
mother’s  pride,  I  fancied,  for  her  eyes  drooped  before  the  glance 
of  mine,  and  a  blush  burned  in  her  cheek,  as  though  shame  and 
not  honor  covered  her  young  maternity.  I  paused  a  moment, 
praised  the  baby,  and  spoke  some  kindly  words  to  her;  but  she 
bowed  her  head  lower  and  lower  on  her  bosom,  speaking  not  a 
word  ;  and  seeing  that  I  only  gave  her  pain,  I  passed  on,  with  a 
spirit  more  saddened  for  the  living  than  for  the  dead,  who  had 
died  in  such  wretchedness. 

Jenny’s  letter  proved  a  wonderful  comfort  to  Helph,  and 
cheerfulness  and  elasticity  gradually  came  back  to  him  ;  but 
when,  at  the  expiration  of  a  year,  his  parents  returned  without 
her,  and  bringing  a  report  of  her  marriage,  all  courage,  all 
ambition,  deserted  him,  and  many  a  summer  and  winter  went 
by,  during  which  he  lived  in  melancholy  isolation. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  write  the  history  of  Jenny  Mitchel, 
except  thus  much,  which  had  some  relation  to  our  life  at  Clo- 
vernook  ;  and  therefore  pass  abruptly  into  the  future  of  my 
good  friend  Randall.  Nearly  fifteen  years  were  gone  since  his 
sweetheart  crossed  the  sea,  and  country  belles  had  bloomed 
and  faded  before  his  eyes,  without  winning  from  him  special 
regard  :  when,  as  he  sat  before  a  blazing  hickory  fire  one  even¬ 
ing,  waiting  for  Aunt  Wetherbe,  who  still  enjoyed  a  green  old 


98 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


age,  to  bring  to  the  table  the  tea  and  short-cake,  there  was  a 
quick,  lively  tap  on  the  door,  and  the  next  moment,  in  the  full 
maturity  of  womanhood,  but  blushing  and  laughing  like  the 
girl  of  years  ago,  Jenny  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  startled 
group — Jenny  Mitchel  still !  Helph  had  become  a  prosperous 
man  in  the  world,  and  had  been  envied  for  the  good  fortune 
which  his  patient  bravery  so  much  deserved.  The  waves  of 
the  sea  of  human  life  had  reached  out  gradually  from  the  city 
until  they  surrounded  his  blacksmith’s  shop,  and  covered  all 
his  lots  as  if  with  silver  ;  and  he  had  been  building,  all  the  pre¬ 
vious  year,  a  house  so  beautiful,  and  with  such  fair  accessories, 
as  to  astonish  all  the  neighborhood  acquainted  in  any  degree 
with  his  habits  or  reputed  temper.  “  What  does  the  anchorite 
mean  to  do  with  such  a  place  %  he  never  speaks  to  a  woman 
more  than  he  would  to  a  ghost,”  they  said ;  “  so  he  won’t  get 
married ;  and  nobody  is  so  particular  about  a  house  to  sell, 
and  it  can’t  be  he’s  going  to  stay  in  it  all  alone.”  But  Helph 
knew  very  well  what  he  was  about,  and  was  content  to  keep 
his  own.  counsel.  If  he  had  mailed  certain  letters  out  at  Clover- 
nook,  our  postmaster  would  have  guessed  at  once  his  secret ; 
but  though  Mr.  Helphenstein  Randall  was  very  well  known  in 
town,  there  were  so  many  objects  there  to  interest  the  common 
attention  that  it  was  never  observed  when,  every  once  in  a 
while,  he  bought  a  small  draft  on  England,  nor  that  he  more 
frequently  sent  letters  east  for  the  Atlantic  steamers,  nor  that 
he  received  as  frequently  as  there  was  foreign  news  in  the 
papers,  missives,  every  month  more  neatly  folded  and  with 
finer  superscriptions.  He  had  been  thought  something  of  a 
philosopher,  by  Ellen  Blake  and  I,  and  others  were  convinced, 
perhaps  by  justifying  reasons,  that  he  was  as  little  impressible 
by  woman’s  charms  as  the  cattle  in  his  stalls.  But  there  are 
not  so  many  philosophers  in  the  world  as  some  pretend,  and 
his  heart  was  all  aglow  with  pictures  of  one  on  whom  he 
looked  in  dreams  and  in  the  distant  perfumed  gardens  of 
his  hope.  Jenny,  deserted,  and  struggling  with  all  the  adversi¬ 
ties  that  throng  the  way  of  a  poor  girl  alone  in  so  great  a  city, 
had  written  at  length  from  London  all  the  story  of  her  treat¬ 
ment  by  her  lover’s  parents,  and  having  time  for  reflection 


MRS.  WETHERBE’S  QUILTING  PARTY. 


70 


before  he  could  answer  her  letter — provoking  all  his  nature 
to  joy  and  scorn — he  had  decided  that  she  should  not  -come 
back  until  she  could  do  so  with  such  graces  and  accomplish¬ 
ments  as  should  make  her  the  wonder  and  him  the  envy  of  all 
who  had  contrived  or  wished  their  separation.  He  had  trusted 
her,  educated  her,  and  at  last  had  all  the  happiness  of  which 
his  generous  heart  was  capable. 

Ellen  Blake  of  course  presided  at  the  wedding,  and  the 
quilts  quilted  that  night  at  Aunt  Wetherbe’s  had  been  kept 
unused  for  a  present  to  Ilelph’s  wife  on  her  bridal  night. 
When  I  am  down  in  die  city  I  always  visit  the  Randalls,  and 
there  is  not  in  the  Valley  of  the  West  another  home  so  pleas- 
sant,  so  harmonious,  so  much  like  what  I  trust  to  share  in 
heaven. 


80 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


ZEBULON  SANDS 

I. 

“  A  capital  fellow,”  everybody  said  when  speaking  of  Zeb, 
for  no  one  ever  called  him  Zebulon — not  even  his  brothers  and 
sisters  :  if  you  had  called  him  Zebulon,  he  would  have  laughed 
in  your  face.  Poor  fellow  !  I  can  see  him  now,  in  fancy,  just  as 
I  used  to  see  him  about  the  old  farm-house  when  I  was  going  to 
school — always  busy,  and  always  cheerful,  doing  some  good  thing 
or  other,  and  laughing  and  whistling  as  he  did  so.  Let  me  de- 
scribe  him  as  I  remember  him,  when  he  was  perhaps  sixteen, 
and  I  quite  a  little  girl.  He  was  not  handsome,  but  no  one 
thought  whether  he  were  or  not,  so  good-humored  and  genial  was 
the  expression  of  his  countenance.  He  was  a  little  below  the  or¬ 
dinary  height,  and  stout  rather  than  graceful,  yet  he  was  always 
perfectly  self-possessed,  and  so  never  awkward.  His  hair  hung 
in  half  curls  of  soft  brown  along  a  low  white  forehead,  and  a  pair 
of  hazel  eyes  twinkled  with  laughter  beneath.  His  face  was  full, 
with  the  fresh  glow  of  health  breaking  through  the  tan,  for  he 
was  a  farmer’s  boy,  and  used  to  exposure  and  hard  work ;  but 
notwithstanding  this,  his  hands  and  feet  were  delicately  moulded 
and  beautiful. 

At  an  early  age  he  was  fond  of  all  manly  exercises,  and  while 
still  a  child  would  brave  the  severest  cold  with  the  fortitude  of  a 
soldier.  Many  a  time  I  have  seen  him  chopping  wood  in  the 
mid-winter,  without  coat  or  hat,  and  standing  knee-deep  in  the 
snow :  his  hair  tossing  in  the  north  wind,  and  his  cheeks  ruddy 
as  the  air  and  exercise  could  make  them.  He  was  never  too 
busy  to  see  me  as  I  passed,  or  to  whistle  me  a  gay  “  good  morn¬ 
ing”  if  I  were  near  enough  to  hear  it,  and  had  often  a  pleasant 
word  or  two  beside.  And  I  never  forgot  to  look  for  him  :  children 
are  more  fond  of  attentions  than  is  apt  to  be  imagined,  and  I  per- 


ZEBULON  SANDS. 


•  81 


haps  had  the  weakness  in  even  an  unusual  degree.  Commonly  he 
was  chopping  at  the  woodpile,  hut  not  always ;  sometimes  I 
would  see  him  driving  the  oxen  toward  the  woods,  seated  on  the 
cart-side,  his  great  dog,  Watcher,  sitting  beside  him  :  he  would  not 
see  me,  and  straightway  the  distance  before  me  seemed  to  lengthen, 
and  the  winter  wind  to  have  a  keener  edge.  Sometimes  he  was 
about  the  barn,  feeding  the  horses  and  cattle  ;  and  I  remember 
seeing  him  once  on  a  distant  hill,  dispensing  bundles  of  oats  to  the 
sheep  :  he  saw  me,  however,  far  as  he  was  away,  and  waved  a 
bundle  of  the  grain  oats  in  friendly  recognition. 

Everybody  in  the  neighborhood  knew  Zeb,  and  had  a  kind 
word  to  say  when  they  met  him,  for  men  and  women,  boys  and 
girls,  were  alike  fond  of  his  good  nature  ;  there  was  no  distrust  in 
his  brain  :  he  never  walked  with  an  irresolute  step,  or  rapped 
at  the  proudest  door  with  a  misgiving  heart,  or  doubted  of  the 
cordial  reception  that  waited  him,  wherever  he  might  go.  But 
his  confidence  in  the  world  was  greater  than  its  goodness  war¬ 
ranted  :  he  did  not  recognize  the  weakness  that  is  in  humanity, 
nor  the  weakness  that  was  in  himself,  till  too  late.  When  he  was 
a  little  boy,  he  said  often,  “  I  will  never  be  sick,  and  never  die — I 
will  go  out  in  the  woods  and  sing.”  And  this  was  his  spirit  till 
he  grew  into  manhood. 

Zeb  had  an  only  sister — Ruth,  or  Ruthy,  as  he  always  called 
her,  and  the  two  children  lived  in  the  old  farm-house  with  their 
father,  a  querulous  gray-headed  man,  who  had  long  forgotten  he 
was  ever  young.  He  did  not  perhaps  mean  to  be  a  hard  master, 
nevertheless  he  was  so  sometimes.  “Use  doth  breed  a  habit  in 
a  man,”  and  Mr.  Sands,  I  suppose,  became  accustomed  by  little 
and  little  to  the  much,  to  the  all,  his  son  did  for  him  ;  so  that  at 
last  his  expectations  in  regard  to  him  could  scarcely  be  equalled. 
Sometimes  Zeb  would  come  in  at  night,  weary  and  dusty  with 
the  day’s  hard  work,  and,  for  his  father’s  comfort,  and  perhaps  in 
the  hope  of  a  little  praise,  tell  over  what  he  had  done  ;  how  he 
had  felled  and  chopped  to  firewood  the  most  stubborn  tree  in  the 
forest,  or,  it  might  be,  had  plowed  more  ground  than  he  had  ex¬ 
pected,  and  so  had  unyoked  the  oxen  before  the  sunlight  was  quite 
gone.  But  never  was  he  rejoiced  by  one  word  of  congratulation. 
If  he  had  felled  a  tree,  “  Why,  there  was  another  knotty  thing 

4* 


82 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


close  by — could  he  not  have  got  that  down  too  ?”  If  he  had 
plowed  more  than  another  would  have  done,  “  He  could  have 
plowed  on  yet  for  an  hour — there  was  light  enough.”  This  was 
discouraging,  hut  Zeb  kept  his  patience  through  all,  and  tended 
the  farm  year  after  year — giving  all  the  profits  that  accrued  into 
the  old  man’s  hand,  and  keeping  nothing  for  himself. 

Ruth  was  as  good  as  most  persons,  but  less  thoughtful  of  her 
brother’s  pleasure  than  her  own.  “  Zeb,  I  want  to  go  to  town 
to-morrow,  or  next  week,”  she  was  accustomed  to  say,  and  be¬ 
fore  the  appointed  time  Zeb  would  haul  the  little  wagon  to  the 
creek,  and  wash  the  old  paint  to  look  as  fresh  as  new.  The  corn 
was  left  ungathered  or  the  mowing  undone,  and  Ruth  went  to  town 
and  bought  a  new  dress,  and  bonnet  too,  if  she  chose  ;  and  Zeb 
said,  “  How  pretty  you  wall  look  when  you  wear  them  !  you  will 
be  ashamed  to  go  with  me  in  my  threadbare  coat  and  old  hat :  I 
am  rather  behind  the  fashion,  ain’t  I,  Ruthy  ?”  He  laughed  gaily 
all  the  while,  and  Ruth  laughed  too — never  thinking  how  many 
new  hats  she  had  had  since  Zeb  had  once  indulged  in  such  a 
luxury. 

The  grass  was  whitening  in  the  hazy  days  of  October  ;  the  orch¬ 
ards  were  bright  with  ripe  fruit,  and  the  corn  was  rustling  and 
dry  ;  it  was  the  autumn  that  made  Zeb  twenty  years  old.  His  lip 
was  darkening  a  little  from  its  boyish  glow,  and  now  and  then 
soberer  moods  came  to  him  than  he  had  known  before.  Across  a 
dry  ridge  of  stubble  land,  overgrown  with  briers,  he  had  been 
plowing  all  the  windy  day  ;  the  oxen  bent  their  heads  low  to  the 
ground  as  the  dust  blew  in  their  faces,  and  Zeb  took  off  his  tom- 
brimmed  straw  hat  now  and  then,  and  shook  out  his  curls,  heavy 
with  sweat,  and  fell  behind  the  team,  as  though  thinking  of  other 
things  than  his  plowing.  One  side  of  the  field  was  bordered  by  a 
lane  leading  from  the  main  road  to  an  obscure  neighborhood.  It 
was  quite  dusky  where  the  lane  struck  into  the  woods,  when  a 
lady  came  riding  thence  on  a  gay  black  horse,  and  seeing  Zeb  at 
his  plowing,  tightened  her  rein,  and,  waiting  for  him  to  approach, 
gave  the  salutation  of  the  evening  in  a  sweet,  good-humored  tone. 
She  was  not  dressed  in  the  costume  which  ladies  now-a-days  think 
indispensable  for  riding,  but  wore  instead  a  straw  hat  w'ith  red 
ribbons  and  a  dress  of  sky-blue  muslin — not  trailing  low,  but  so 


ZEBULON  SANDS. 


83 


short  that  her  feet  peeped  now  and  then  from  beneath  it.  She  sat 
her  horse  gracefully,  and  her  cheeks  were  deeply  flushed,  perhaps 
from  the  proximity  of  the  young  farmer,  perhaps  merely  from  ex¬ 
ercise  ;  and  her  black  hair  hung  in  curls  down  her  shoulders,  and 
her  black  eyes  sparkled  with  healthful  happiness.  So,  altogether, 
she  made  as  pretty  a  finishing  to  the  rural  picture  as  one  could 
imagine.  Certainly  Zeb  thought  so,  as  leaning  against  the  fence 
be  caressed  the  glossy  neck  of  the  horse,  champing  the  bit  and 
pawing  the  dust  impatiently  ;  and  as  he  stood  there  it  might 
have  been  noticed  that  he  removed  his  hat,  and  so  rolled  the  brim 
in  his  hand  as  to  conceal  how  badly  it  was  torn.  It  was  observ¬ 
able  too  that  he  talked  in  a  subdued  tone  and  with  downcast 
eyes — very  unlike  his  usual  manner.  After  a  brief  delay,  and  a 
little  restrained  conversation,  the  young  woman  rode  forward, 
putting  her  horse  at  once  into  a  canter. 

For  five  minutes  or  more  Zeb  lingered  where  she  left  him — not 
looking  after  her,  nor  seeming  to  see  anything,  as  he  idly  cut 
letters  in  the  fence-rail  with  his  knife.  Directly,  however,  he 
took  up  his  hat  from  the  ground,  upon  which  it  had  fallen,  re¬ 
placed  his  knife  in  his  pocket,  drew  a  sigh,  and  began  to  unyoke 
his  team.  But  before  he  had  quite  freed  the  weary  oxen  he 
looked  up  :  the  blue  dress  and  red  ribbons  were  yet  visible  in  the 
distance  :  he  hesitated,  and  after  a  moment  resumed  his  plowing, 
whistling  a  merry  tune,  but  so  plaintively  and  with  such  varia¬ 
tions  as  made  it  sad  almost  as  a  dirge. 

The  pretty  girl  just  riding  out  of  sight  is  Molly  Blake,  a  young 
person  who  lives  a  mile  or  so  beyond  the  woods  that  stand  against 
the  field  in  which  the  youth  is  at  work.  Zeb  and  Molly  once 
stood  together  at  spelling  school,  and  Zeb  spelled  for  her  all  the 
hard  words,  in  whispers ;  and  on  a  time,  while  picking  berries, 
they  chanced  to  meet,  and  it  so  happened  that  Zeb  went  home 
with  an  empty  basket,  while  Molly’s  was  heaped  full.  The  cause 
of  their  seeing  each  other  to-day  is,  that  Molly  is  going  to  make 
an  apple-cutting  in  a  night  or  two,  and  has  given  the  earliest  invi¬ 
tation  to  Zeb.  As  he  carved  letters  in  the  fence  he  was  debating 
whether  he  would  go  or  not ;  and  as  he  unyoked  the  oxen,  he 
was  saying  to  himself,  “  I  will  go  home  and  rest,  I  am  tired ; 
and  I  can’t  go  to  the  apple-cutting,  at  any  rate,  in  my  old  clothes 


84 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


and  hat.”  Still  he  hesitated,  and  as  he  did  so,  saw  the  blue 
dress  and  red  ribbons  in  the  distance  ;  then  came  the  thought 
that  he  might  plow  an  hour  or  two  more,  and  so  gain  time  to  go 
to  town  with  some  oats  or  potatoes,  and  bring  home  such  articles 
as  the  frolic  seemed  to  demand.  And  at  this  thought  he  re¬ 
sumed  his  work. 

It  not  unfrequently  happens  that  a  young  man  is  not  regarded 
by  his  sisters  as  he  is  regarded  by  other  women ;  such  was  the 
case  with  Zeb  ;  and  on  this  special  occasion  Ruth  never  once 
thought  whether  her  brother  had  been  invited  to  the  party  or 
not,  so  engaged  was  she  with  her  own  plans  and  pleasures.  It 
chanced  this  evening,  as  such  things  will  chance  sometimes,  that 
supper  was  prepared  an  hour  earlier  than  usual ;  and,  until  it  was 
too  late  for  her  to  see,  Ruth  stood  at  the  window,  watching  for 
her  brother  to  come  home. 

Meantime  the  fire  burned  out  and  the  tea  grew  cold ;  and  then 
came  impatience,  and  then  petulance,  so  that  Ruth  said  at  last, 
“  Come,  father,  we  will  eat  without  him,  and  let  him  come  when 
he  gets  ready.” 

But  Zeb  came  pretty  soon,  wrearied,  but  with  a  brain  full  of 
pleasant  thoughts,  which  shone  out  upon  his  manly  countenance. 
“  Well,  Ruthy,  I  am  sorry  I  have  kept  you  waiting,”  he  said,  as 
he  drew  water  for  his  oxen  at  the  well. 

“  I  am  sorry  too,”  she  answered  in  a  calm,  decided  tone,  that 
indicated  a  frigid  state  of  feeling. 

“  Come,  Ruthy,  do  n’t  be  vexed,”  said  Zeb,  laughing  after  the 
old  fashion,  “  but  get  my  supper,  while  I  turn  the  oxen  into  the 
meadow — (you  do  n’t  know  how  tired  and  hungry  I  am) — and  I 
will  tell  you  what  detained  me.” 

“  You  need  n’t  trouble  yourself  to  do  that,”  she  answered, 
tossing  her  head,  “  it ’s  of  no  importance  to  me.” 

Zeb  pulled  his  old  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  walked  soberly 
away  with  his  oxen,  quite  forgetting  that  he  was  either  tired  or 
hungry.  If  Ruth  felt  any  misgivings,  pride  kept  them  down  ; 
and,  to  justify  herself,  she  said,  half  aloud,  “  Well,  I  don’t  care  ! 
he  had  no  business  to  stay  away  till  midnight.”  Neverthe¬ 
less,  she  arranged  the  supper  as  nicely  as  might  be  ;  but  Zeb  did 
not  come — his  appetite  had  quite  deserted  him.  Across  the 


ZEBU  LON  SANDS. 


85 


meadow,  near  where  the  oxen  were  feeding,  he  lay  on  the 
grass,  the  moonlight,  flecked  by  the  apple-boughs,  falling  over 
and  around  him. 

A  day  or  two  of  unhappy  reserve  went  by,  Zeb  remaining 
little  about  the  house,  and  saying  little  when  he  was  there,  but 
plowing  early  and  late,  grieved  rather  than  vexed.  When  he 
spoke  to  Ruth,  it  was  with  words  and  in  a  manner  studiously 
kind,  and  with  her  duller  sense  she  did  not  see  that  he  was 
changed,  but  a  crisis  had  been  reached  at  length  in  the  young 
farmer’s  life  and  nature. 

The  evening  of  so  many  happy  anticipations  was  near  at 
hand.  The  morning  was  bright,  and  Zeb  rose  early,  and  was 
busy  with  preparations  for  a  little  project  he  had  in  his  mind, 
when  Ruth  came  out,  and  assisting  him  to  lift  a  bag  of  potatoes 
into  the  wagon,  inquired  whether  he  were  going  to  town  that 
day  :  she  would  like  to  go,  she  said,  if  he  could  make  room  for 
her.  “  I  am  invited  to  Molly  Blake’s  to-morrow  night,”  she 
continued,  “and  that  is  the  reason  I  wish  to  go  to  town  this 
morning.”  She  did  not  ask  Zeb  if  he  also  were  invited : 'she 
never  thought  of  the  possibility. 

It  was  after  noon  before  they  reached  the  city,  and  leaving 
his  sister  at  the  house  of  a  cousin,  in  the  suburbs,  with  a  promise 
of  meeting  her  at  an  appointed  hour,  he  drove  away  in  search 
of  a  market  for  his  oats  and  potatoes.  The  grocers  with  whom 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  dealing  were  all  supplied  ;  the  few  offers 
he  received  were  greatly  below  his  expectations,  and  hours 
were  spent  in  driving  from  street  to  street,  before  he  was  able 
to  dispose  of  his  produce  at  any  reasonable  price.  He  had 
found  no  time  to  dine — no  time  to  feed  his  horses — and  the 
heads  of  the  tired  animals  drooped  sadly,  as  he  turned  them 
toward  the  place  where  he  was  to  meet  Ruth. 

The  show  at  the  window  of  a  hatter  attracted  him ;  he  had 
never  had  a  fur  hat,  and  checking  his  team  close  against  the  side¬ 
walk,  he  looked  at  the  tempting  display,  and  had  mentally 
selected  one  which  he  thought  would  please  him — at  the  same 
time  putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket  to  ascertain  wThether  he 
could  afford  one  so  fine — when  his  attention  was  arrested  by 
the  sudden  appearance  of  his  sister.  “  Why,  Zeb !”  she  said 


86 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


pettishly,  “are  you  charmed  with  a  hatter’s  window1?  I  waited 
and  waited  till  I  was  tired  to  death,  and  then  set  out  in  search 
of  you.”  Zeb  laughed,  and  answered,  that  if  she  looked  at  his 
old  hat  she  would  see  why  he  was  charmed,  and  assured  her  of 
his  regret  that  she  was  alarmed  about  him. 

It  was  not  fear  for  his  safety  that  induced  her  to  look  for 
him,  but  need  of  money.  The  youth  averted  his  face  from  the 
window,  and  a  disappointed  expression  passed  across  it,  as  he 
answered,  “  How  much  do  you  want,  Ruthy  '?”  , 

“  Oh,  I  do  n’t  know,”  she  said  carelessly,  “  all  you ’ve  got.” 

He  turned  away,  as  if  to  take  up  the  reins — perhaps  even  his 
dull  sister,  could  she  have  seen  it,  would  have  been  able  to 
read  something  of  what  was  at  the  moment  written  on  his  coun¬ 
tenance — and  reaching  backward  all  the  money  he  had,  and 
climbing  into  the  wagon,  began  to  rub  the  mud  from  his  trow, 
sers  with  a  wisp  of  straw.  Away  went  Ruth — her  thoughts 
full  of  new  ribbons  and  shining  shoes,  and  more  than  all,  of  the 
gold  ring  that  was  to  sparkle  on  her  finger  the  next  evening. 

While  these  little  purchases  were  being  made,  the  horses 
stamped  their  feet,  and  switched  their  tails  restlessly ;  and  Zeb, 
feeling  that  he  had  no  very  present  purpose,  nor  any  sympathy 
to  lessen  his  half-surly  and  half-tearful  mood,  turned  his  back 
to  the  hatter’s  window,  and,  seated  in  the  front  corner  of  the 
wagon,  brushed  the  flies  from  the  tired  animals  with  his  old  hat. 
The  sun  was  near  setting  when  Ruth  returned,  her  hands  full 
of  little  packages  and  parcels,  and  her  face  beaming  with  joy. 
So  they  went  home  together,  and  when  Ruth  rode  to  town  in 
the  little  wagon  again,  Zeb  was  not  sitting  beside  her. 

The  next  day  was  a  busy  one,  but  before  night  the  new  white 
apron  was  made,  the  pink  ribbon  knotted  up,  and  the  ring  glit-  . 
tering  where  Ruth  had  long  desired  to  see  it.  “Well,  Zeb,” 
she  said,  as  she  turned  down  the  lane  to  go  to  Molly  Blake’s, 

“  I  want  you  to  make  me  a  flower-pot  to-night — sawred  in 
notches  at  the  top,  you  know — it’s  time  to  take  up  my  myrtle.” 
All  day  die  had  been  thinking  she  would  say  something  about 
his  going  with  her  — disclose  some  regret,  perhaps,  when  he 
should  tell  her  he  could  not  go  ;  but  now  the  poor  satisfaction  of 
giving  any  expression  to  his  disappointment  was  denied  him,  and 


ZEBULON  SANDS. 


87 


making  pictures  in  the  air,  of  gayeties  in  which  he  could  have  no 
part,  he  set  to  work  about  the  flower-pot.  He  thought  hard, 
and  wrought  as  hard  as  he  thought,  and  the  little  box  was  soon 
completed — notched  round  at  the  top,  just  as  had  been  desired. 
It  was  not  yet  dark  when  the  work  was  done,  and  Zeb  held  it 
up  admiringly  when  he  had  filled  it  with  fresh  earth,  and  ar¬ 
ranged  the  long  myrtle  vines  to  drop  gracefully  through  the 
notches.  Pie  placed  it  in  the  window  of  Ruth’s  room,  and,  the 
task  accomplished,  there  came  a  feeling  of  restlessness  that  he 
could  not  banish,  try  as  he  would.  The  full  moon  was  redden¬ 
ing  among  the  clouds,  and  the  yellow  leaves  raining  down  with 
every  wind,  as,  folding  his  arms,  he  walked  up  and  down  among 
the  flowers  that  he  had  planted  in  May. 

II. 

“  Ah,  Zeb,  is  that  you?”  said  a  good-natured  voice,  in  a  fami¬ 
liar  tone  ;  and  a  young  man,  driving  in  a  rattling  cart,  drew  up 
before  the  gate,  and  followed  the  salutation  with  an  oath  and  an 
inquiry  as  to  Zeb’s  being  at  home,  when  there  was  “such 
almighty  attraction  abroad.” 

Zeb  came  indolently  forward,  remarking  that  his  friend  was 
insensible  to  that  great  attraction  as  well  as  himself. 

“  Oh,  Jehu  !”  answered  the  young  man,  laughing  boisterously, 
“  I  hope  you  do  n’t  think  1  was  invited.  Gracious  me !  you 
do  n’t  expect  a  wood-chopper  like  me  could  get  into  such  a 
place  as  Molly  Blake’s  house  ?”  And  he  laughed  again,  saying, 
“  Zeb,  my  dear  boy,  how  very  verdant  you  are  !” 

The  man  in  the  cart  was,  as  he  said,  a  wood-chopper — a  most 
genial  and  amiable  fellow,  notwithstanding  some  bufferings  of 
adverse  fortune — for  he  had  been  cast  loose  on  the  world  at  an 
early  age,  and  had  faced  scorn  and  hunger,  laughing  all  the 
time.  “  Come,  come,  Zeb,”  he  said,  seeing  the  moping  mood 
of  the  young  farmer — “  climb  into  my  coach,  and  allow  me  to 
give  you  an  airing  by  the  light  of  the  moon.  In  with  you  !  I 
can  fight  down  the  bluest  devils  that  ever  got  hold  of  a  chap.” 

W  e  are  apt  to  imbibe  the  spirit  of  whomever  we  associate 
with,  and  Zeb  affected  a  liveliness  at  first  which  he  presently 


88 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


felt,  and  joined  in  the  wild  chorus  which  the  chopper  every  now 
and  then  pealed  out : 

“  Never  candles  at  night 
Made  so  pretty  a  light 

As  the  moon  shining  over  our  cabin,  my  dear ; 

Never  home  was  so  sweet 
As  our  woodland  retreat, 

So  where  could  we  ever  be  happy  but  here  1” 

They  drove  rapidly,  and  talked  mirthfully,  and  soon  reached 
their  destination,  the  ball-room  of  the  Clovernook  tavern,  in 
which  that  night  a  political  speech  was  to  be  made.  It  was 
late  and  raining  when  the  meeting  broke  up,  and  a  portion  of 
the  assemblage  adjourned  to  the  bar-room,  to  wait  for  the  rain 
to  slack,  and  to  talk  off  their  excitement  and  prejudice. 

“  Well,  boys,”  said  our  Jehu,  who  was  moved  to  the  highest 
pitch  of  his  best  humor  by  the  politician’s  speech,  which  chanced 
toA‘  meet  his  ideas  exactly,”  “  I  feel  as  if  a  little  drop  of  some¬ 
thing  would  do  me  good  ;  and  besides  I  want  you  to  jine  me  in 
drinking  the  health  of  the  apple-cutters.  Here  !”  he  continued, 
exhibiting  a  bottle  to  the  circle  about  him,  “  who  of  you  will 
take  off  the  head  of  this  ‘  Lady  Anne  ?’  ” 

But  one  bottle  did  not  suffice,  nor  twro,  nor  three  ;  the  spirits  of 
the  company  rose  higher  and  higher  ;  strong  and  stronger  drinks 
were  called  for — the  wood-chopper  protesting  that  he  could  stand 
a  treat  as  well  as  another,  and  especially  urging  the  liquor  upon 
his  friend  Zeb,  topping  off  each  proffer  with,  “  Darn  the  expense, 
old  feller ;  drink,  and  forget  your  sorrows,  and  Molly  into  the 
bargain.”  Zeb  declined  at  first,  replying  that  he  did  n’t  care 
anything  about  Molly  :  but  it  would  not  do  ;  he  was  asked  if  he 
feared  to  vex  the  proudy,  and  had  so  soon  surrendered  his 
manhood  to  her  caprice.  At  last  he  yielded  to  the  current  so 
strongly  set  against  him,  and,  swearing  a  great  oath,  drank  off 
more  brandy  than  might  safely  be  taken  by  the  most  habitual 
tippler.  But  it  is  not  necessary  that  I  linger  on  that  dreadful 
night.  Alas,  for  poor  Zeb  !  it  was  a  night  that  for  him  had 
never  any  ending. 

The  sun  was  struggling  up,  and  the  mists  w'ere  rising  out  of 
the  ground  like  hot  steam,  when  the  wood-chopper  again  drew  up 


\ 


ZBBULON  SANDS. 


89 


his  cart  before  the  old  farm-liouse  ;  and  arousing  his  companion 
from  the  straw  in  which  he  lay  in  a  fevered  and  maddened  sleep, 
assisted  him  to  the  ground,  balancing  him  on  his  feet  as  one 
might  a  little  child,  and  steadying  him  as  he  tried  to  walk — for 
he  staggered  feebly  one  way  and  the  other,  telling  the  chopper 
he  did  n’t  care  a  damn  who  saw  him,  that  he  was  just  as  good 
as  any  man,  and  that  Molly  Blake  was  the  prettiest  girl  in  the 
world,  and  he  would  fight  anybody  who  said  she  was  not. 

“  Come,  Zeb,”  said  his  companion,  “  have  more  pluck  ;  do  n’t 
talk  so  like  a  fool and  passing  his  arm  around  him,  he  conti¬ 
nued,  “  be  like  me — be  a  man  !”  And  with  such  encourage¬ 
ment,  he  brought  his  friend  as  near  the  house  as  he  dared,  and 
left  him  to  make  his  entrance  alone. 

“  Zebulon  Sands,”  said  his  father,  meeting  him  at  the  door, 
and  giving  the  severest  expression  to  a  naturally  severe  counte¬ 
nance,  “  are  you  not  ashamed  to  show  your  face  to  me  ?  I 
wish  you  had  died  before  I  saw  this  day.  I  do  n’t  want  to  see 
nor  speak  to  you,”  he  continued,  “  till  you  can  behave  yourself 
better.”  Ruth  stood  by,  speaking  not  a  word,  but  looking  her 
contempt  and  indignation,  while  Zeb  staggered  against  the  wall, 
and  with  downcast  eyes  picked  the  straws  out  of  his  hair  and 
from  off  his  coat.  He  heard  her  laugh  derisively,  saw  her  turn 
away,  and  when  he  called  her,  she  did  not  come — perhaps  she 
did  not  hear  him.  In  a  moment  all  the  imbecility  of  drunken¬ 
ness  was  gone — he  knew  what  he  had  done,  and  felt  a  self-con¬ 
demnation  bitterer  than  a  thousand  curses. 

The  rain  came  on  again  after  an  hour  or  two,  and  continued 
throughout  the  day,  and  Zeb,  creeping  into  the  barn,  listened  to 
its  falling  on  the  roof,  half  wishing  that  some  dread  accident 
would  come  upon  him,  whereby  a  reconciliation  with  his  father 
and  sister  might  be  brought  about.  But  hour  after  hour  went  by, 
and  the  dull  and  dreary  beating  of  the  rain  was  all  he  heard  ; 
no  gleam  of  sunshine  broke  the  gloom  that  was  about  him ;  no 
voice  but  the  still,  reproving  one  of  conscience,  met  his  listening  ; 
so  the  day  faded,  and  the  night  fell.  At  last,  worn  down  physi¬ 
cally,  and  exhausted  mentally,  he  slept,  waking  not  till  the  break 
of  day.  The  rain  had  ceased,  and  the  wind  was  whistling  chillily 
from  the  north.  He  remembered  what  his  father  had  said  to 


90 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


him,  and  the  contemptuous  laugh  of  his  sister  rang  in  his  ears. 
If  they  had  looked  kindly  on  him,  his  heart  would  have  been 
melted ;  he  would  have  asked  their  forgiveness,  and  perhaps 
would  never  again  have  yielded  to  temptation,  made  even 
stronger  by  his  transient  weakness.  But  they  had  met  him  with 
no  kindly  admonitions,  and  he  had  too  much  pride  to  seek  an 
opportunity  of  humbling  himself ;  so  giving  one  sorrowful  look  to 
the  old  farmhouse,  he  pulled  the  torn  hat  over  his  eyes,  thrust 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  hills  of  home 
were  lost  to  him  forever. 

Zeb  whistled  as  he  went,  not  for  want  of  thought,  but  to  drown 
it,  and  he  walked  fast,  in  a  vain  effort  to  get  away  from  himself. 
The  sun  was  scarcely  risen  when  he  found  himself  in  the  sub¬ 
urbs  of  the  city,  friendless  and  penniless.  I  need  not  describe  his 
eflorts  to  find  employment :  of  course  he  understood  nothing  but 
the  work  to  which  he  had  been  used,  and  his  rustic  manners  and 
anxious  credulity  made  him  liable  to  constant  impositions. 

III. 

“  Well,  Ruthy,  I  wonder  if  Zeb  has  found  a  better  place  ?” 
said  Mr.  Sands  one  evening  about  a  fortnight  after  the  young  man 
had  gone  to  seek  his  fortune. 

“  I  do  n’t  know,”  she  answered,  laying  the  embers  together,  for 
it  was  cold  enough  for  fire  now  ;  “  I  do  n’t  know — I  do  wonder 
where  he  is — but  he  will  take  care  of  himself,  I  ’ll  warrant  that.” 

“  I  hope  he  will,”  said  Mr.  Sands  ;  “  but  I  do  n’t  know.  He 
wTas  always  a  good  boy — I  wish  I  had  not  been  quite  so  hard 
with  him.” 

The  silence  that  followed  was  broken  by  a  rap  on  the  door. 
“  Come  in,”  said  Mr.  Sands,  and  the  cousin  mentioned  as  living  in 
the  city  suburb  entered.  Zeb  was  at  his  house,  and  very  sick. 
The  physicians  had  pronounced  his  disease  small-pox  of  the  most 
virulent  nature. 

With  the  suspense,  some  softness  had  gathered  about  the  hearts 
of  father  and  sister  ;  but  when  this  intelligence  came,  more  than 
the  old  hardness  returned. 

“  If  he  had  staid  at  home  and  minded  his  business,”  said  the 


ZEBULON  SANDS. 


91 


father,  “  he  would  have  been  well ;  as  it  is,  he  must  get  along 
the  best  he  can.  It  would  he  an  awful  thing  to  bring  him  into 
the  neighborhood.” 

“  Dear  me,  I  can ’t  go  to  see  him,”  said  Ruth,  rolling  up  her 
sleeve,  to  examine  the  scar  of  vaccination.  “  It  was  too  bad  in 
Zeb  to  act  so.  I  hope  when  he  gets  well  he  ’ll  behave  himself.” 

“  He  is  very  good,  all  at  once,”  said  the  father.  “  Is  he  broke 
out  in  the  face  ?” 

So  the  cousin  rode  back  again,  little  profited  by  his  journey. 

Two  or  three  days  went  by  without  any  further  tidings  of 
Zeb,  and  then  a  neighbor  chanced  to  hear  in  town  that  he  was 
very  bad  ;  still  it  was  not  definitely  known  that  his  case  was 
desperate. 

“Very  bad!”  said  Mr.  Sands,  when  he  heard  this  news — 
“  every  body  is  very  bad  who  has  the  small-pox  :  like  enough 
he  ’ll  be  marked  for  life.”  But  though  he  was  uneasy,  he 
neither  sent  a  messenger  nor  went  himself  to  visit  his  unhappy 
son.  For  three  days  nothing  further  was  heard.  Ruth  said  she 
thought  he  must  be  better,  else  they  would  hear  ;  and  the  father 
said  he  guessed' so  too,  or  they  would  certainly  get  some  news 
from  him. 

The  day  was  one  of  those  deliciously  genial  ones  which  some¬ 
times  gladden  the  autumn ;  and  the  father  and  daughter,  well 
and  strong,  could  not  realize  that  Zeb  was  dying.  In  the  after¬ 
noon  Ruth  went  to  pass  an  hour  or  two  and  drink  tea  with  a 
friend.  There  were  many  new  things  to  be  seen,  and  many 
interesting  matters  to  be  talked  about;  so  her  thoughts  were 
quite  drawn  away  from  her  brother  ;  or,  if  now  and  then  they 
returned  to  him,  it  was  less  fearfully  than  they  had  done  before. 
It  was  nightfall  when  she  set  out  for  home,  and  though  the  dis¬ 
tance  was  not  long,  star  after  star  came  out,  as,  slowly  walk¬ 
ing,  she  recounted  all  that  she  had  seen  and  heard  that  after¬ 
noon  ;  how  such  an  one  had  made  her  a  new  dress,  and  whether 
it  were  probable  that  such  another  were  to  be  married,  as  re¬ 
ported  ;  and  so,  musing,  she  reached  the  hill  that  overlooked 
the  homestead.  All  was  dark :  involuntarily  she  quickened  her 
step,  and  in  a  moment  recognized  her  father  walking  backward 
and  forward  in  the  road  before  her.  His  form  seemed  more 


92 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


than  usually  bent,  and  his  hands  were  crossed  behind  him-  -ac¬ 
cording  to  his  habit  in  times  of  trouble — and  his  gray  haii  was 
uncovered,  and  blown  about  in  the  wind.  He  was  waiting  for 
her  she  knew,  and  why  he  was  waiting  she  felt.  “  Oh,  father,” 
she  said,  seeing  he  did  not  speak,  “have  you  heard  from  ZebU’ 

“  I  wish  I  had  gone  to  see  him,  Ruth,”  he  answered,  covering 
his  face  with  his  hands. 

“  Is  he  dead  ?”  she  asked  in  a  low  tone — for  the  awful  fear 
kept  her  heart  still. 

“  I  do  n’t  know,”  he  answered  trembling,  “  but  I  ’m  afraid 
we  shall  never  see  him  alive.  He  has  not  spoken,  since  last 
night  at  midnight — then  he  said  he  should  not  get  well,  and 
that  he  should  like  to  see  me  and  you,  Ruthy  ;  yet  he  told 
them  not  to  send  for  us,  saying  we  could  do  no  good,  and  that 
our  lives  must  not  be  endangered  for  him.” 

“  Oh,  poor  Zeb !”  sobbed  out  the  girl,  “  let  us  go  and  see 
him.  Can ’t  we  go  to-night  ?” 

“  Dear  child,  he  does  not  know  anybody  to-day,”  answered 
the  father,  “  and  has  not  spoken  since  sunrise.  Poor  Zeb !  it 
is  all  our  fault.” 

So,  talking  and  weeping  together,  they  entered  the  old  house. 
How  lonesome  it  was  !  the  wind  had  never  been  so  mournful 
before.  Ruth  remembered  when  she  and  Zeb  had  listened  to 
it  in  the  autumns  that  were  gone,  but  it  was  not  dirge-like, 
as  now.  The  drifting  of  the  yellow  leaves  in  the  moonlight 
seemed  to  have  a  sorrowful  significance ;  and,  years  after,  Ruth 
could  not  see  them  fall  without  recalling  something  of  the  feel¬ 
ing  that  came  upon  her  that  night. 

It  is  a  long  time  since  they  sat  together,  father  and  daughter, 
listening  to  the  winds  and  to  the  reproaches  of  their  own  hearts, 
as  they  remembered  their  harsh  words  and  hard  behavior.  It 
is  a  long  time  since  Ruth  took  from  the  notched  flower-pot 
Zeb  had  made  for  her  the  greenest  and  freshest  vines  of  the 
myrtle,  and  set  them  over  his  grave.  And  once  or  twice  in 
every  year  the  wood-chopper  may  be  seen  mending  the  mound, 
and  pulling  the  weeds  from  among  the  flowers.  He  has  never 
been  known  to  “  stand  a  treat”  since  the  night  he  tempted  his 
friend  to  ruin. 


LEARNING  CONTENT. 


93 


LEARNING  CONTENT. 

✓ 

I. 

“  What  on  earth  am  I  to  do  now  1  I ’d  just  like  to  know — 
here  you  are  crying  out  ‘  Mother,  mother,  mother  !’  a  half  a 
dozen  at  a  time — may  be  if  I  could  make  myself  into  two  or 
three  women  I  might  get  along.” 

So  exclaimed  Mrs.  Polly  Williams,  throwing  down  a  gar¬ 
ment,  on  which  she  had  been  resolutely  and  silently  stitching, 
and  her  air  and  manner  indicating  complete  mental  and  physical 
exhaustion.  The  children,  who  had  caused  this  violent  out¬ 
break  and  the  more  ominous  relapse,  stood  back  in  affright  for 
a  moment,  and  then  recommenced  the  gambols  and  frolicsome 
quarreling  in  which  they  had  been  previously  engaged. 

“  I  say,  Billy,  you  and  Jim  pretend  to  be  my  horses,  and 
turn  down  the  red  chair  and  pretend  it ’s  a  stage,  and  get  me 
on  the  top  and  pretend  I ’m  the  driver  !”  shouted  John  Williams, 
a  bright-eyed  little  fellow,  not  yet  out  of  petticoats,  and  his 
round  rosy  cheeks  seemed  shining  with  pleasure  as  he  seized 
the  tongs  for  a  whip. 

“  Eh,  why  !  that ’s  a  great  whip — we  won’t  be  horses  if  you 
are  going  to  strike  with  that,”  sung  out  both  boys  at  once  ; 
upon  which  the  child  began  making  so  rapid  and  terrible  a 
stampede  on  the  floor  as  to  mollify  their  prejudices  at  once. 

“  Oh,  yes,  Johny  may  drive  us  with  the  tongs,”  they  said, 
‘•just  as  much  as  he  wants  to  ;  we  can  pretend  it’s  a  whip  with 
two  stocks  and  no  lash — a  new-fashioned  whip  that  cost  fourteen 
hundred  million  dollars  ;”  and  turning  down  the  red  chair,  they 
put  themselves  in  the  traces,  a  feat  that  was  accomplished  in  a 
summary  way,  and  by  merely  taking  hold  of  the  chair  posts — 
after  which  they  trotted  off  in  rather  coltish  style,  looking 


94 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


askance  at  Johny,  who  stood  sniveling  on  one  side  of  the  room 
quite  regardless  of  his  team. 

In  vain  they  capered  and  made  divers  snorts  and  pitches  at 
him  as  they  passed  ;  all  for  some  time  proved  ineffectual  ;  but 
ere  long  his  hands  slipped  from  over  his  eyes,  and  a  slantwise 
glance  now  and  then  betokened  an  increasing  interest.  The 
pretended  horses,  at  this  juncture,  began  kicking  up  their  heels 
and  dashing  forward  furiously,  at  the  same  time  crying  out  at 
the  top  of  their  voices,  “  Oh,  Johny’s  team  is  running  away — 
they  will  break  the  stage  all  to  pieces,  and  Johny  can ’t  check 
them — he  is  a  little  coward — Johny  is  !” 

“  No,  I  ain’t,”  said  the  young  Jehu,  indignantly  ;  and  uplifting 
his  two-stocked  whip  before  the  brothers,  he  brought  them  to  a 
sudden  stand-still,  on  which  he  began  pulling  their  hair  right 
viciously. 

“  Bubby  must  n’t  pull  the  mane  of  his  colts  so  hard,”  remon¬ 
strated  the  boys,  “or  they  will  get  mad  and  bite.”  Then  they 
opened  their  mouths  to  the  widest  extent  and  closed  them  again 
with  a  snap  that  was  in  fact  rather  fearful  to  see,  while  Johny, 
with  laughter  on  his  lips,  and  the  tears  in  his  eyes,  climbed  upon 
the  prostrate  chair  and  indicated  his  wishes  by  sundry  kicks 
and  thrusts  of  the  tongs. 

A  few  rounds  over  the  carpet,  and  one  or  two  hair  breadth 
escapes  in  crossing  the  sunken  hearth,  which  the  talkative  horses 
pretended  was  a  new  stone-bridge  over  the  Ohio,  without  pro¬ 
tecting  railings,  and  consequently  very  dangerous,  especially 
with  skittish  colts,  had  a  tendency  to  bring  the  little  driver  into 
a  phrenzy  of  good  humor,  and  he  began  with  almost  unintel¬ 
ligible  earnestness  to  announce  his  progress.  “  Now  we  are 
just  going  by  the  school-house,”  said  he,  “  and  all  the  scholars 
are  trying  to  look  at  us  :  Ab  Long  will  get  whipt  for  shaking 
his  fist  at  me,  and  Rachel  Day  is  running  after  me  to  get  a 
ride  :  run  fast,  horses,  and  get  away  from  her !  now  we  are 
away  a  hundred  miles  past  her,  and  1  expect  she  is  crying  like 
a  good  fellow.  Whoa!  horses,  here’s  the  green  tavern” — and 
he  brought  up  before  a  dining-table  covered  with  a  green  shining 
oil-cloth,  and  dismounting,  threw  the  reins,  consisting  of  a  string 
of  white  rags,  which  passed  for  fair  leather,  on  the  ground,  in 


LEARNING  CONTENT. 


05 


true  professional  style ;  and  seizing  a  small  tin  bucket,  in  which 
the  boys  carried  their  dinner  to  school,  he  vigorously  beat  the 
air  with  one  arm  while  he  held  the  bucket  beneath  the  door¬ 
knob,  under  pretence  of  pumping  water,  after  which  he  held  the 
empty  bucket  before  the  faces  of  the  boys,  whose  noisy  inha¬ 
lations  of  air  passed  for  copiously  refreshing  draughts. 

“  The  looking-glass  is  the  sign — don’t  you  see,  Bill  ?  don’t 
you  see  it,  Jim  *?”  said  John,  pointing  to  a  small  square  glass, 
in  a  cherry  frame,  which  was  hung  with  some  attempt  at  style 
between  the  ceiling  and  the  table,  having  for  a  back-ground  some 
two  yards  of  bluish-colored  paper,  embellished  with  figures  of 
chickens  and  roosters  of  a  bright  pink  color,  decidedly  well  to 
do,  an  almost  defiant  aspect,  and  tails  outspread  like  the  huge 
fans  with  which  fat  old  ladies  in  the  country  revive  them¬ 
selves  on  Sunday  afternoons,  and  also  with  little  black  demure 
hens  having  yellow  streaks,  close  at  the  neck,  and  widening  out 
into  gores  between  the  wings.  This  was,  in  fact,  the  genteel 
part  of  the  house,  for  closely  neighboring  the  glass  was  the 
skeleton  of  a  clock,  standing  out  from  another  strip  of  highly- 
colored  paper,  with  nothing  but  its  square  white  face  to  screen 
from  view  its  curious  mechanism  of  pegs,  wires,  and  wheels, 
while  the  pendulum  ticked  off  the  time  below,  and  from  hour 
to  hour  the  two  great  iron  weights  dangled  lower  and  lower, 
with  a  creaky,  scraping  sound,  resembling  the  thunder  of  a 
caty-did — if  such  a  thing  might  be — till  at  length  they  almost 
touched  the  floor,  when  the  eldest  daughter,  Maria,  whose 
honorary  privilege  it  was,  climbed  upon  a  little  workstand,  and 
with  slow  and  regular  turning  of  the  key,  wound  the  aforesaid 
weights  quite  out  of  view  behind  the  great  white  face.  But  to 
return  to  my  young  traveler  :  “Gee  up,  Bill ;  gee  up,  Jim  !” 
said  Johny,  taking  up  the  fair  leather  reins,  and  snapping  the 
tongs  together  by  way  of  cracking  his  whip  ;  “  now  1  ’m  going 
by  the  store ;  now  I ’m  going  by  the  flour-mill ;  now  I ’m  going 
away  through  the  woods;  now  you  must  pretend  all  the  chairs 
are  trees,  and  that  you  run  against  them  and  break  the  stage 
and  kill  yourselves  !” 

“  Oh,  no,  Johny,  that’s  no  way  at  all,”  said  Jim,  looking  back 
in  a  dissatisfied  way ;  “  you  don’t  know  how  to  travel — I ’ve 


96 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


studied  geography — let  me  tell  you  where  to  go,  something 
like.” 

John  remained  sullenly  silent  a  moment,  and  then  urging  his 
team  forward,  said,  “If  you  know  such  great  things,  tell  them.” 

“Now,  Bill,  do  just  as  I  do,”  said  Jim,  in  an  earnestly  ad¬ 
monishing  way,  on  which  the  two  boys  gave  a  jump,  as  sudden, 
and  over  as  much  distance,  as  they  could,  cumbered  as  they 
were  with  stage-coach  and  passengers.  “Now,”  said  Jim,  “we 
are  at  Cincinnati” — here  followed  another  spring;  “now  we 
are  at  New  York  !” — then  came  a  quick  succession  of  springs 
and  announcements,  which  took  in  the  world  in  a  few  minutes, 
and  brought  them  back  in  front  of  the  green  tavern,  when  the 
loud  stamping  of  the  mother’s  foot  caused  a  momentary  silence. 

“  Do  you  mean  to  tear  the  house  down she  exclaimed,  in 
a  very  loud  and  angry  tone  ;  “  I  do  think  I  Ve  got  the  worst 
boys  of  anybody  in  this  world  ;  I  don’t  know  what  to  do  with 
you ;  it ’s  no  use  to  try  to  make  you  mind  ;  I  might  as  well 
speak  to  the  wind — bad,  good  for  nothing  boys  that  you  are  ! 
What  would  you  think  to  see  your  father  and  me  act  as  you 
do  ?”  The  idea  was  so  ludicrous  that  the  boys  laughed  out¬ 
right,  in  spite  of  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion,  and  Johny,  the 
least  and  most  timid,  ran  under  the  table,  that  he  might  the 
more  freely  indulge  his  mirthful  inclinations. 

“  Oh,  Johny  is  a  rabbit  now,  that  we  have  burrowed,”  said 
the  boys,  dropping  on  their  hands  and  knees,  and'  barking  at 
him  as  much  after  the  manner  of  dogs,  as  frequent  practice  had 
enabled  them  to  do. 

At  this  juncture  Mrs.  Williams  arose,  and,  taking  down  a 
switch  that  depended  menacingly  from  the  ceiling,  she  brought 
it  to  bear,  much  as  a  dexterous  thresher  would  a  flail,  on  so 
many  bundles  of  oats.  John  presently  came  out,  with  his 
plump  little  fists  in  his  eyes  and  a  great  blue  spot  on  his  fore¬ 
head,  crying  as  if  his  heart  would  break.  The  older  boys 
made  sundry  dives  and  plunges,  in  which  one  of  the  clock 
weights  was  pulled  down  and  the  table  set  askew,  but  all  efforts 
to  escape  were  circumvented,  and  they  soon  gave  up  and  joined 
in  the  crying. 

“  Now,”  said  Mrs.  Williams,  with  a  good  deal  of  exultation 


LEARNING  CONTENT. 


97 


in  her  angry  tone,  “  you  have  got  something  to  make  a  noise 
for !” 

But  as  their  loud  clamor  subsided  into  reproachful  moans, 
the  violence  of  the  mothers  wrath  subsided  too,  and  she  began 
pouring  out  lamentations  as  though  she  were  doomed  to  all  the 
suffering  in  the  world.  Johny  she  took  up  in  her  arms  and 
rocked,  with  many  essays,  not  altogether  ineffectual,  to  kiss  his 
forehead  well — under  which  treatment  the  little  fellow,  forgetting 
his  team  and  his  bruises,  sobbed  into  sleep.  The  older  boys 
picked  their  nails  and  turned  their  faces  to  their  chair-backs, 
while  a  sermon  on  this  wise  was  inflicted  by  the  matron  :  “  Ain’t 
you  ashamed,  James  and  William,  great  boys,  big  enough  to 
be  men,  to  act  as  you  do,  and  give  your  poor  mother  so  much 
trouble  !  Here  she  sits,  making  and  mending  and  cooking  for 
you  all  day,  and  you  don’t  care — no,  not  a  bit,  you  don’t  care 
for  your  poor  mother  !”  “  You  don’t  take  the  right  means  to 

make  us  care,”  they  might  have  replied,  but  they  said  nothing, 
and  she  went  on  :  “  Poor  old  mother !  one  of  these  days  she  ’ll 
get  sick  and  die,  and  have  to  be  buried  in  the  ground,  and  then 
what  will  become  of  you,  and  poor  father  too — at  work  all  day 
to  get  shoes,  and  bread,  and  everything — you  will  be  sorry 
then  you  did  n’t  mind  mother,  and  be  good  little  boys.”  Quite 
overcome  with  the  desolate  picture  which  poor  father  and  his 
little  orphans  made  in  her  imagination,  she  drew  the  corner  of 
her  apron  before  her  eyes,  and  indulged  in  melancholy  reflec¬ 
tions  much  longer  than,  under  the  circumstances,  she  should 
have  done,  for  it  was  nearly  night,  and  Mrs.  Polly  Williams 
was  a  farmer’s  wife,  and  the  evening  should  have  been  a  busy 
time — the  tea-kettle  should  have  been  filled,  the  milk  skimmed, 
the  room  set  in  order,  and  many  other  things  done,  the  while 
her  checked  apron  was  being  moistened  with  tears,  that  she  said 
nobody  cared  for. 

Meantime,  Jonathan  Williams,  whose  shadow,  as  he  plowed, 
stretched  half  way  across  the  field  behind  him,  looked  anxiously 
towards  the  house,  for  he  was  tired  and  not  sorry  to  see  the  sun 
descending  so  near  the  western  tree-tops.  “  What  can  be  the 
matter  with  Polly he  thought,  as  he  came  over  the  ridge 
and  saw  the  house  looking  still  and  desolate,  while  all  the 


98 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


neighboring  homes  were  enveloped  with  wreaths  of  smoke, 
pleasantly  indicative  of  approaching  supper.  “It  is  time,  too, 
the  boys  were  coming  for  the  cows  ;  I  wonder  if  our  folks  are 
all  dead,  or  what  on  earth  they  are  about  !”  After  another 
moment’s  hesitation,  he  concluded  to  plow  one  more  round, 
before  leaving  off  work  for  the  day.  The  field  in  which  he 
was  engaged  joined  that  of  his  neighbor,  Thomas  Giles,  who 
chanced  also  to  be  plowing  ;  and  it  further  happened  that  the 
two  teams  drew  up  to  the  dividing  fence  together. 

“Well,  Mr.  Williams,”  said  Mr.  Giles,  “how  does  plowing 
go — ground  in  pretty  good  order 

“So  so,”  answered  Williams,  too  much  disturbed  in  mind  to 
appreciate  correctly  his  neighbors  question,  perhaps. 

“  A  nice  colt  that  bay  of  yours  :  how  many  hands  high  is 
he  *?”  asked  Giles,  leaning  over  the  fence  and  patting  his  arched 
neck  caressingly. 

“Nice-looking  enough,”  answered  Williams;  “but  his  sight, 
you  see,” - 

“  Humph ! — pity — but  he  has  the  eye  of  a  kind  critter 
and  Giles  combed  the  long  mane  of  the  proud-looking  animal, 
with  his  fingers,  as  though  he  thought  him  a  pretty  good  colt 
after  all.  “Trade  him,”  he  added,  after  a  moment,  “if  a  fellow 
would  give  you  boot  enough 

“  No,  sir  !  I  have  no  idea  of  selling  or  trading  him,”  and 
Mr.  Williams  looked  toward  his  house,  which  was  now  out  of 
view,  saying,  “I  must  be  getting  along  home.” 

“Time  for  me,  too,”  said  Giles;  “1  see  by  the  smoke  that 
supper  is  ready,  and  1  only  meant  to  stop  long  enough  to  send 
a  message  from  my  wife  to  yours,  which  is  nothing  more  nor 
less  than  an  invitation  from  my  wife  to  your  wife  to  come  to 
our  house  to-morrow  afternoon.  ‘  Early,’  my  wife  told  me  to 
say,  and  that  she  would  be  disappointed  if  your  wife  did  n’t 
come.” 

“I’ll  tell  her,”  said  Williams;  and  loosening  the  traces,  he 
sent  his  horses  homeward  alone,  and  set  out  himself  in  search 
of  the  cows  ;  while  Giles  plodded  along,  wondering  whether 
his  neighbor  had  a  touch  of  the  rheumatism,  (the  weather  had 
been  damp)  or  what  made  him  so  down-he*arted.  As  he  drew 


LEARNING  CONTENT. 


99 


near  home,  his  wife  came  forth,  with  her  milk-pail,  and  a  deep 
sun-bonnet  pulled  down  over  her  face.  Little  Daniel  Giles 
stood  beneath  a  cherry-tree,  varying  his  idleness  by  throwing 
stones  at  the  chickens  which  were  going  to  roost  in  the  boughs  ; 
the  mother  paused,  gave  him  a  silent  shake,  boxed  his  ears, 
right  and  left,  and  passed  on,  without  so  much  as  glancing  at 
Tommy. 

“  Why,  Emeline,  what  sends  you  out  to  milk  to-night'?’’  said 
the  husband,  kindly,  as  tucking  up  her  skirts  she  placed  herself 
beside  a  little  kicking  heifer,  with  brindled  hide,  and  horns 
bent  close  together,  switching  her  tail  in  the  woman’s  face 
by  way  of  salutation. 

“  What  sends  me  1  why,  it’s  time  somebody  was  milking,  I ’m 
sure.”  Scarcely  had  she  finished  the  sentence,  when  away  went 
the  pail,  with  a  deep  indention  in  one  side,  and  the  little  cow 
was  seen  running  and  tossing  her  head  in  an  opposite  direction. 

“  Don’t  try  to  milk  the  ugly  brute,  Emeline,”  said  Mr.  Giles, 
consolingly  ;  “it’s  as  much  as  1  can  do.” 

But  Mrs.  Giles,  after  shaking  the  milk  from  her  apron,  took 
up  the  pail  in  silence,  and  resolutely  resumed  her  milking. 
Directly,  however,  she  was  left  beside  her  overturned  pail, 
alone,  and  the  tears,  in  spite  of  her  winking  and  pulling  down 
the  bonnet,  dropped  one  after  another  down  her  cheeks. 

“If  you  had  minded  me,  that  would  not  have  happened,” 
was  the  first  exclamation  of  the  husband  ;  but  when  he  saw  her 
tears,  his  tone  changed  to  one  of  kind  commiseration,  and  reach¬ 
ing  for  the  pail,  to  which  she  firmly  held,  he  said,  “  Do  n’t,  Eme¬ 
line  ;  do  n’t  be  so  stubborn  ;  go  in  and  prepare  the  supper  while 
I  milk  ;  come,  Emelime,  come — I  expect  Polly  Williams  will 
come  to  see  you  to-morrow.” 

“  I  do  n’t  care  for  Polly  Williams  ;  I ’m  sorry  she  is  coming,” 
sobbed  Mrs.  Giles  ;  but  her  heart  was  softened  a  little,  evi¬ 
dently,  for  she  loosened  her  hold  on  the  pail,  which  Mr.  Giles 
took,  as  he  continued,  “To  be  sure,  Emeline,  Polly  Williams 
isn’t  you,  but  I  guess  she  is  a  good  clever  woman,  for  you 
know  she  comes  into  our  house  if  any  of  us  is  ailing,  just  as 
though  it  was  her  own  ;  she  seems  to  know  just  where  and  how 
to  take  hold.” 


100 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“  She  ought  to  have  some  good  about  her,  the  dear  knows,” 
persisted  Mrs.  Giles,  the  fires  of  whose  anger  were  not  yet  all 
burned  down  ;  “  but  I  suppose  if  she  is  coming  there  is  no  help 
for  it.” 

“  Why,  you  told  me  this  very  noon-time,”  answered  the  hus¬ 
band,  “just  as  I  was  dipping  a  tin  of  water. from  the  pine 
bucket — with  your  own  lips  you  told  me  to  try  and  get  word 
to  Polly  to  come  over  here  a  visiting  to-morrow  afternoon.” 

“  Well,  what  if  I  did  V ’ 

“  Nothing  :  only  I  supposed  you  wanted  her  to  come.” 

“  Oh,  you  suppose  great  things,  sometimes.” 

“Well,  well,  never  mind,”  said  Mr.  Giles;  “I  don’t  want 
to  quarrel,  and  I  do  want  my  supper.” 

“  You  are  always  finding  fault  with  me,”  said  Mrs.  Giles, 
petulantly,  “  when  I  try  to  do  everything  ;”  and  then  came  out 
one  cause,  at  least,  of  the  vexation — supper  had  been  waiting 
half  an  hour. 

When  the  supper  had  been  eaten  by  the  husband,  in  silence, 
(Mrs.  Giles  did  n’t  want  any, # she  had  a  headache,)  and  removed 
suddenly,  and  the  children  were  all  asleep,  happy  in  dreams  of 
new  hen’s  nests,  perhaps,  Mr.  Giles  drew  his  chair  up  to  that 
of  his  wife,  where  she  sat  in  a  streak  of  moonlight,  leaning  her 
head  on  her  hand. 

“  Emeline,”  he  said,  pressing  between  both  his  toil-hardened 
hands  one  of  hers,  “don’t  you  remember  one  night,  when  we 
were  walking  down  the  lane,  and  you  blushed  that  I  called  you 
Mrs.  Giles — for  your  name  was  not  Mrs.  Giles  then — we  saw 
riding  home  from  market  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Griffith,  looking  as 
though  none  the  happier  for  being  together,  and  I  said  to  you, 
‘  Emeline,  is  that  the  way  we  shall  do,  by-and-by1?’  and  you 
said,  ‘  If  I  ever  look  so  cross,  Tommy,  I  shall  not  expect  you  to 
love  me.’  Then,”  he  added,  half  sorrowfully,  half  reproach¬ 
fully,  “I  didn’t  think  you  ever  would.” 

Poor  Mrs.  Giles — over  all  her  worn  and  faded  and  chilling 
experiences,  came  a  wave  from  that  fountain  that  is  always 
fresh — she  did  n’t  look  cross  any  more. 

The  next  morning  she  went  about  preparations  for  Mrs. 
Williams,  cheerfuliy,  though  she  said  it  was  troublesome  to 


LEARNING-  CONTENT. 


101 


have  visitors  ;  but  she  should  never  be  any  more  ready  than 
she  was  then,  she  supposed.  And  so,  with  sweating  and  toiling 
and  some  scolding,  she  prepared  custards  and  cakes,  and  such 
other  delicacies  as  farmhouses  afford,  arranging  the  dinner 
meantime,  that  all  might  be  in  readiness  at  an  early  hour. 

The  children,  who  were  frolicsome  and  noisy  and  not  too  obe¬ 
dient,  were  called  together  from  tree-tops  and  mud-puddles,  and 
from  under  the  barn — their  faces  and  hands  reduced  to  a  natural 
color  by  soap  and  water  applications,  their  heads,  which  Mrs. 
Giles  said  looked  like  so  many  brush-heaps,  combed  and  curled, 
and  their  torn  and  soiled  garments  exchanged  for  neat  and  clean 
ones — and  they  were  told  they  must  see  how  pretty  they  could 
act,  for  that  Mrs.  Williams  was  going  to  bring  her  three  nice 
little  boys,  who  would  be  frightened  to  death  if  they  behaved 
as  they  were  accustomed  to.  A  dozen  whippings  would  not 
have  been  so  effectual,  and,  tying  on  bonnets  and  hats,  they 
walked  down  the  lane  and  settled  themselves  in  the  shade  of 
a  tree  to  greet  the  coming  of  their  visitors.  They  did  not  have 
long  to  wait,  for  the  shadows  werfe  only  slanting  a  little  from 
noon  when  Mrs.  Williams,  with  three  accompaniments,  whom 
she  called  at  home  the  torments  of  her  life,  and  abroad  her 
troublesome  comforts,  was  seen  coming  over  the  hill,  in  a  dress, 
of  a  stiff’  woollen  stuff,  which  she  had  worn  from  time  immemo¬ 
rial,  and  holding  before  her  face  the  faded  green  parasol  which 
she  had  carried  just  about  as  long. 

“  I’ll  declare,”  said  Mrs.  Giles,  slipping  out  of  one  dress  and 
into  another,  “she  might  as  well  have  come  before  dinner,  and 
be  done  with  it ;  what  on  earth  can  I  find  to  say  all  this  long 
afternoon The  new  cap  was  hardly  tied  when  the  creaking 
of  the  gate  announced  the  near  approach  of  her  neighbor,  and 
as  Mrs.  Giles  opened  the  door  her  face  broke  into  the  happiest 
smile.  “  Really,  Polly,”  she  said,  violently  shaking  hands,  “  it 
does  a  body  good  to  see  you  once  more.” 

“  I  am  sure,”  answered  Mrs.  Williams,  “I  ain’t  much  to  see, 
and  if  I  look  happy  it ’s  because  I  ’ve  come  to  your  house,  where 
everything  is  so  nice  and  the  two  ladies,  mutually  pleased, 
and,  laughing  as  though  they  never  did  anything  else,  walked 
into  the  house  together. 

o 


102 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


II. 

When,  the  previous  evening,  Mr.  Williams  brought  home 
the  cows,  with  some  misgivings  he  approached  the  house,  for 
he  yet  saw  no  indication  of  life  thereabouts.  “  Why,  Polly, 
what  in  the  world  has  happened  he  said,  placing  his  hands  on 
either  side  of  the  door,  and  looking  anxiously  within  ;  but 
Polly  neither  looked  up  nor  made  any  reply.  “  Heard  any 
bad  news,  any  way  V ’  he  said,  after  a  pause.  Mrs.  Williams 
.shook  her  head  ;  and  after  a  moment  of  bewildered  silence,  and 
seeing  his  boys  lopping  over  the  backs  of  their'  chairs,  with 
swollen  eyes  and  red  noses,  he  renewed  his  efforts  to  ascertain 
what  manner  of  calamity  could  have  overtaken  his  household. 
“  Sick,  any  of  you he  said,  in  a  tone  between  petulance  and 
tenderness. 

Mrs.  Williams  partly  removed  the  apron  from  her  eyes,  and 
looked  askance  at  her  husband,  revealing  a  face  reddened  with 
tears,  but  she  only  shook  her  head,  this  time  more  mournfully 
than  before. 

“  Then  what  is  the  matter  'l  seems  to  me  you  act  strangely, 
for  nothing.” 

After  lingering  in  vain  anxiety  a  little  while  longer,  he  pro¬ 
ceeded  to  kindle  a  fire,  and  fill  the  tea-kettle  ;  and  Mrs.  Wil¬ 
liams,  laying  her  baby  in  the  cradle,  presently  went  about 
preparations  for  supper.  No  farther  explanation  was  asked  or 
given,  and  a  night’s  sleep  operated  to  restore  things  to  their 
usual  tenor. 

“  I  had  a  little  talk  with  Mr.  Giles,  last  evening,”  said  Mr. 
Williams,  at  breakfast. 

“  Did  you  ?”  said  Mrs.  Williams  ;  “well,  what  did  he  have 
to  say  V’ 

“  Oh,  not  much — he  liked  our  bay  oolt  pretty  well,  and  he 
said  his  wife  said  she  wanted  you  to  come  over  there  this  after¬ 
noon — airly,  he  said  she  said.” 

“  I  have  quite  as  much  as  I  can  get  along  with,  at  home,” 
said  Mrs.  Williams  ;  and  she  looked  as  though  she  endured  a 
great  many  hardships  that  nobody  cared  anything  about. 

“Well,  do  as  you  like,  Polly,”  said  Mr.  Williams,  as  he 


LEARNING  CONTENT. 


103 


went  out  to  his  day’s  labor ;  “  but  he  said,  Emeline  said 
she  wanted  you  to  come,  and  bring  the  children,  he  said,  she 
said.” 

“  I  am  sure  I  do  n’t  care  much  about  visiting  anywhere,  and 
least  of  all  about  visiting  Mrs.  Giles.” 

“  Why,  what  have  you  against  Mrs.  Giles  1  she  is  a  nice 
woman,  I  am  sure — beautiful  day,  I  guess  it  will  turn  out.” 

“  Oh,  I  have  nothing  particular  against  her — I  don’t  lay  up 
hard  thoughts  against  anybody,”  said  the  wife ;  “  but  it  seems 
to  me  it  would  be  hard  work  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Giles  to-day.” 

Notwithstanding  all  Mrs.  Williams  said,  and  half  believed, 
she  went  more  briskly  about  her  work  than  usual,  though,  when 
the  children  asked  if  she  was  going,  she  replied,  vaguely,  that 
she  would  “  see  about  it.” 

“  Toot-to-to-to-o-o  !”  went  the  dinner-horn,  at  half-past  eleven, 
and  Mr.  Williams  hastened  home,  for  he  well  knew  that  visiting 
was  to  be  done.  “  And  so  you  have  concluded  to  go,  have  you, 
Polly'?”  he  said,  as  he  sat  down  to  dinner. 

“I  suppose  I  may  as  well  go,  and  be  done  with  it,”  she 
replied,  44  if  I  have  it  to  do  ;  and  the  children  are  all  crazy  to  go  ; 
the  day  is  pleasant,  and  there  is  nothing  more  than  there  always 
is  to  prevent ;  and  so  I  must  put  on  the  old  black  dress  that 
everybody  is  fcired  of  seeing,  and  trot  along  in  the  sun — I  ’ll  be 
glad  when  it ’s  over.” 

An  hour  thereafter  the  happy  meeting  took  place. 

“  I  was  so  afraid  you  would  not  come,”  said  Mrs.  Giles, 
untying  the  bonnet-strings  of  her  friend,  “for  I  had  the  queerest 
dream  last  night,  and  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  something  bad 
was  going  to  happen.” 

“  1  do  hate  to  be  plagued  with  ugly  dreams,”  said  Mrs.  Wil¬ 
liams  ;  “  but  what  was  it  about  ?” 

“  Why,”  said  Mrs.  Giles,  “I  dreamed  that  you  were  sick, 
and  it  did  hot  seem  precisely  as  if  you  were  sick,  either,  but 
you  were  blind,  and  1  thought  your  face  was  white  as  a  cloth, 
and  1  tried  to  get  where  you  were,  for  1  saw  you  walking  about 
in  your  own  yard,  but  1  kept  falling  as  I  tried  to  walk,  and 
could  n’t  get  along,  and  when  at  last  I  was  nearly  there,  I  found 
that  I  had  no  shoes  on  ;  still  i  thought  I  must  go  on,  and  just 


104 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


as  I  opened  the  gate  a  great  dog  sprung  at  me  and  took  me 
right  in  the  wrist,  and  I  fairly  jumped  out  of  my  skin  and 
waked  right  up — wide  awake  as  I  am  now.  A  good  little  bit 
it  seemed  to  me  as  if  it  was  the  truth,  for  I  could  see  just  how 
you  looked,  and  the  thought  of  the  cross  beast  made  me  almost 
trimble  ;  all  I  could  do  I  could  n’t  get  to  sleep  again,  and  as 
soon  as  the  first  roosters  crowed  for  daylight  I  got  up,  and  it 
appeared  like  I  could  have  no  peace  till  I  saw  you.” 

“Some  people  think,”  said  Mrs.  Williams,  “that  the  state 
of  the  mind,  or  the  supper  we  eat,  or  something  or  other,  in¬ 
fluences  our  dreams,  but  I  don’t  think  any  such  thing.” 

“  No,  nor  I,”  answered  Mrs.  Giles,  though  she  thought  of 
retiring  supperless,  and  of  some  unpleasant  words  and  feelings 
previously  ;  she  did  not  speak  of  them,  however.  “I  am  sure 
I  have  had  dreams  that  were  omens-like,”  resumed  Mrs.  Giles, 
sadly;  “along  before  my  poor  little  Emeline  died,  I  dreamed 
one  night  that  a  strange  woman,  dressed  in  white,  came  to  the 
door  and  asked  me  to  see  the  baby,  and  though  I  did  n’t  know 
who  she  was,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  must  do.  as  she  bid,  and  I 
put  little  Emeline  in  her  arms  and  she  carried  her  away — 
walking  right  through  the  air,  I  thought.  It  was  only  a  little 
while  till  she  took  sick  and  died.” 

At  this  recital  the  eyes  of  both  the  ladies  filled  with  tears, 
and  their  hearts  flowed  right  together.  The  children  stood  in 
silent  wonder  and  fear,  that  seemed  to  say,  “  Why  do  you  cry, 
mother  ?”  Mrs.  Giles  gave  them  some  cakes  and  told  them  to 
go  out  to  some  shady  place  and  play,  for  that  they  were  seeing 
their  best  days.  They  did  not  believe  that,  though  they  obeyed, 
and  presently  their  merry  shouts  and  laughter  indicated  that 
their  days  were  very  good  ones,  whether  their  best  or  not. 

How  easily  we  are  acted  upon  by  outward  influences  !  the 
lively  carol  of  a  bird,  a  merry  peal  of  laughter,  or  a  smiling 
face,  gives  tone  and  color  to  our  feelings,  and  unconsciously  we 
begin  to  look  at  the  cheerful  side  of  things  ;  and  so,  as  the  two 
ladies  heard  the  pleasant  sport  of  their  children,  their  thoughts 
flowed  into  pleasant  channels ;  and  as  they  rocked  by  the  vine- 
curtained  window^,  they  chattered  like  two  magpies — now  of 
the  garden,  now  of  the  children  and  the  school,  now"  of  what 


LEARNING  CONTENT. 


105 


they  had  got,  and  now  of  what  they  proposed  to  get,  all  of 
which  subjects  were  spiced  occasionally  with  a  little  harmless 
gossip. 

“  How  well  that  dress  does  wear,”  said  Mrs.  Giles,  rubbing 
the  sleeve  of  her  friend’s  gown  between  her  fingers  ;  “  and  it 
looks  just  as  good  as  new,  yet — I  wish  I  could  get  such  a 
thing.” 

“  I  always  thought  it  was  a  good  black,”  replied  Mrs.  Wil¬ 
liams,  “and  it  does  seem  as  if  there  was  no  wear  out  to  it,. and 
it ’s  the  handiest  kind  of  a  dress,  for,  being  worsted,  I  can  wear 
it  in  winter,  and  yet  it  is  so  stiff  and  cool  that  I  can  wear  it  in 
summer  just  as  well  as  if  it  were  lawn.” 

“  I  ’ll  dare  say,”  said  Mrs.  Giles ;  “  where  did  you  get  the 
piece  1  I  must  have  one  just  like  it  the  first  time  I  go  to  town.” 

To  have  heard  the  conversation  of  the  women,  their  little 
confidences,  and  sly  inuendoes,  about  Mr.  Smith  and  Mrs.  Hill, 
and  the  way  they  managed  things,  you  would  have  supposed 
them  two  of  the  best  friends  in  the  world,  and  withal  very 
amiable.  And  so  in  fant  they  were,  as  friends  and  amiability 
go  ;  neither,  as  she  had  anticipated,  felt  at  any  loss  for  some¬ 
thing  to  say,  and  the  hours  glided  swiftly  by. 

“  La,  bless  me  !”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Giles,  suddenly  throwing 
down  her  work  ;  ‘■''just  look  at  that  shadder — why,  the  afternoon 
don’t  seem  to  me  to  have  been  a  minute  long” — 

“  Did  you  ever  !  who  would  have  thought  it  ?”  said  Mrs. 
Williams  ;  but  there  they  were,  the  long  sunset  shadows  stretch¬ 
ing  across  the  yard,  and  it  was  time  for  Mrs.  Giles  to  make  her 
biscuits.  “  1  guess,  Polly,”  she  said,  “  you  will  have  to  move 
your  chair  into  the  kitchen,  for  I  don’t  like  to  leave  you  long 
enough  to  get  supper,  and  it’s  getting  so  late  that  I  must  spring 
about.”  So  they  adjourned  together,  and  Mrs.  Giles,  tying  on 
a  checked  apron  and  rolling  back  her  sleeves,  kneaded  the 
flour  vigorously,  and  the  tea-kettle  was  presently  steaming  like 
an  engine,  and  an  extra  large  “  drawing  of  tea”  was  steeping  on 
the  hearth. 

“  Now,  Emeline,”  said  Mrs.  Williams,  lifting  the  tea-table 
into  the  middle  of  the  floor,  “you  need  n’t  say  one  word,  for  I 

am  going  to  set  the  table  for  you.” 

5* 


106 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“  No,  Polly,  you  .are  not  going  to  do  any  such  a  thing ;  it’s 
a  pretty  story  if  you  must  go  to  work  when  you  come  to  visit ; 
now  just  sit  down  and  make  yourself  comfortable.” 

“  I  shall  do  no  such  a  thing,”  said  Polly,  “  that  is,  I  won’t  sit 
in  my  laziness  when  you  are  at  work  ;  it  will  make  me  a  good 
deal  more  comfortable  to  help  ;  I ’d  be  ashamed,”  she  continued, 
laughing,  “  to  tell  you  what  you  should  n’t  do,  if  you  were  at 
my  house.” 

“Well,  have  your  own  way,  and  live  the  longer,”  replied 
Emeline,  playfully  tossing  the  table-cloth  toward  her  friend, 
who  proceeded  to  arrange  the  tea-things  with  as  much  ease  and 
grace  as  if  she  were  at  home. 

The  new  dishes  were  admired  ;  the  quality  of  the  sugar  ex¬ 
amined,  both  ladies  agreeing  that  it  was  the  whitest  brown 
sugar  they  had  ever  seen,  and  so  cheap ;  the  knives  and  forks 
were  thought  by  Mrs.  Williams  perfect  loves — so  small  and 
highly  finished  ;  and  Mrs.  Giles  thought  them  so  too,  though  she 
said  she  did  n’t  know  as  they  were  anything  more  than  common. 

“  I  will  have  a  set  just  like  them  before  I  am  a  month  older,” 
said  Mrs.  Polly  Williams. 

“  And  I  will  have  a  dress  just  like  yours,”  replied  Mrs.  Giles, 
“  and  1  must  borrow  the  pattern  too — it  fits  so  beautifully.” 
So,  it  was  agreed  that  they  should  go  to  town  together — Mrs. 
Giles  for  the  dress,  and  Mrs.  Williams  for  the  knives  and  forks. 
Only  the  previous  evening  Mrs.  Giles  had  said  she  hoped  to 
have  some  new  knives  and  forks  before  Mrs.  Williams  came 
again,  though  she  supposed  the  old  ones  would  have  to  do. 

What  a  pleasant  time  they  had,  drinking  tea  together  !  the 
cake  had  not  one  heavy  streak,  or  if  it  had,  neither  of  them 
saw  it ;  and  the  custard  was  baked  just  enough,  the  biscuits 
were  as  light  and  white  as  new  fallen  snow,  and  the  butter  and 
the  honey,  all  the  supper,  in  fact,  was  unexceptionable ;  of 
course  Mrs.  Williams  praised  everything,  and  of  course  Mrs. 
Giles  was  pleased ;  and  as  for  the  children,  they  were  perfectly 
happy,  till  the  time  of  parting.  “Now  you  must  come  right 
soon,  and  bring  all  the  children,”  said  Mrs.  Williams,  when 
they  separated  at  the  end  of  the  lane. 


LEARNING  CONTENT. 


107 


“  Oh,  yes,  I  shall  come  soon,  but  don’t  wait  for  me ;  when¬ 
ever  you  can,  take  your  work  and  run  over.” 

And  after  much  lingering,  and  invitations  iterated  and  reit¬ 
erated,  and  promises  made  over  and  over,  each  to  the  other, 
that  she  would  be  more  sociable,  they  parted.  And  certainly 
there  was  no  affectation  of  interest  they  did  not  feel ;  the  crust 
of  selfishness  that  gathered  over  tlicjir  hearts,  in  isolation,  was 
rubbed  off  by  contact,  and  the  hard  feeling,  engendered  by  too 
frequent  contemplation  of  the  darkest  side  of  things,  was  changed 
into  kindness  under  the  influence  of  genial  looks  and  words — 
so  much  in  this  journey  of  life  do  little  things  discourage,  or 
help  us  on. 

When  Mrs.  Polly  Williams  opened  the  gate  at  home,  she 
saw  her  husband  sitting  by  the  open  door,  waiting  and  looking 
for  her  ;  the  milking  was  done,  and  the  kettle  boiling,  and  it 
seemed  no  trouble  at  all  to  prepare  supper  for  him  ;  and  the 
less,  perhaps,  that  he  said,  “  Do  n’t  give  yourself  trouble,  Polly  ; 
just  set  out  anything  that’s  convenient,  and  never  mind  changing 
your  dress  and  cooking  for  me.” 

“  It  will  only  require  a  minute,”  replied  the  wife,  unslipping 
the  hooks,  for  the  old  black  dress  had  acquired  a  new  value, 
and,  turning  it  wrong  side  out,  she  hung  it  away  more  carefully 
than  she  had  done  for  a  year. 

“  Well,  how  did  you  like  your  visit  ?”  asked  the  husband, 
drawing  his  chair  inside  the  door,  as  the  dishes  began  ‘to  rattle 
down  on  to  the  table. 

“  Oh,  it  was  the  best  visit  1  ever  had  ;  Emeline  had  every¬ 
thing  so  nice,  and  was  so  glad  to  see  me.”  Then  she  related 
many  little  particulars,  only  interesting  to  them — sipping  tea, 
the  while,  not  that  she  wanted  any,  but  merely  for  company’s 
sake  ;  and  saying,  in  conclusion,  that  if  her  children  were  only 
like  Emeline’s,  she  would  be  so  glad  ! 

Meantime,  Mrs.  Giles  returned,  and  began  washing  her  dishes, 
and  singing  as  she  did  so,  while  Mr.  Giles  sat  by,  looking  pleased 
and  happy.  “Just  step  into  the  pantry,  my  dear,”  said  Mrs. 
Giles,  (she  had  not  said  “  my  dear,”  previously,  for  a  long  time) 
“  and  get  me  a  nice  piece  of  brown  paper  to  wrap  these  knives 


108 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


and  forks  in,”  and  she  looked  at  them  admiringly,  as  she  rubbed 
them  through  the  tea-towel. 

“  And  did  you  find  the  afternoon  as  tedious  as  you  expected  ]” 
inquired  the  husband,  bringing  the  paper  ;  but  the  wife  was  so 
busy  in  praising  the  children  of  Mrs.  Williams,  that  she  did  not 
seem  to  hear  him,  though  perhaps  she  did,  and  meant  it  a  reply 
when  she  said,  “  La,  me  !  everybody  has  their  little  faults,  and 
little  troubles,  too,  I  expect — we  are  none  of  us  perfect.  Just 
put  the  knives  and  forks  on  the  upper  shelf.” 


TWO  VISITS. 


109 


TWO  VISITS. 

I. 

Two  very  excellent  families  were  the  Knights  and  Lytles, 
neighbors  of  ours  years  ago.  But  they  were  most  unlike  each 
other  in  disposition  and  character.  Mrs.  Knight  was  imbedded 
in  old-fashioned  notions,  out  of  which  she  could  not  be  lifted  by 
any  sort  of  modern  invention,  however  skillfully  contrived  ; 
she  was  so  meek  that  she  considered  herself  unworthy  of  the 
earnings  of  her  own  hands  ;  she  was  also  gloomy  and  dis- 
pondent ;  but  her  friend  Mrs.  Lytle  wa's  altogether  different. 
Mrs.  Knight  had  consolation  for  all  the  ills  of  life,  in  the  com¬ 
forting  reflection  that  it  would  soon  be  over,  though  she  some¬ 
times'  said  she  would  be  happy  in  it  if  she  had  anything  to 
make  her  so.  As  to  whether  Mrs.  Knight  would  have  been 
very  cheerful  under  any  circumstances,  seems  to  me  a  little 
doubtful,  for  no  one  but  herself  could  see  anything  very  adverse 
in  her  fortune.  She  was  really  a  kind  woman  at  heart,  but  she 
had  no  sight  except  for  the  dark  side  of  things,  and  this,  linked 
with  extreme  modesty,  amounting  frequently  to  a  painful  diffi¬ 
dence,  made  her  singularly,  and,  as  far  as  others  could  perceive, 
needlessly  wretched.  She  was  the  wife  of  what  is  termed  a 
well-to-do  farmer,  a  man  whose  energy  and  upright  dealing 
had  won  for  him  the  respect  of  all  his  acquaintances.  When  a 
young  man  he  had  earned  with  his  own  hands  the  land  on 
which  he  lived,  clearing  off  the  timber,  burning  the  brush, 
rolling  the  logs  together,  and  going  through  the  various  priva¬ 
tions  and  hardships,  of  which  we  know  so  little,  except  from 
the  reminiscences  of  pioneers.  When  a  portion  of  the  land 
had  been  cleared,  and  fences  made,  a  young  orchard  planted, 


110 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


and  ground  broken  for  the  first  crops,  in  the  interval  between 
sowing  and  harvesting  he  set  about  building  a  house :  and 
when  the  wheat  was  stacked  and  the  cornstocks  rustling  in  the 
autumn  wind,  the  smoke  from  as  snug  a  cabin  as  was  to  be 
found  in  all  the  neighborhood,  blew  across  the  hills,  pleasantly 
reminding  him  of  the  young  and  pretty  girl  whom  he  had 
scarcely  learned  to  call  his  wife;  and  so  he  wrought  with  more 
hope  and  energy  than  before.  Of  course,  prosperity  mated 
herself  with  him,  and  the  fields  grew  broader  and  wider,  and 
the  shadows  of  the  orchard  trees  covered  all  the  ground,  while 
flocks  of  cattle  and  sheep  dotted  the  pastures.  But  with  these 
years  I  have  little  to  do,  only  as  the  light  reflected  from  them 
shows  that  Mrs.  Knight  had  at  least  a  provident  husband. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  write,  they  were  in  the  maturity  of 
life — old  people  I  thought  them,  for  I  was  not  so  old  as  I  am 
now,  and  as  we  grow  older  we  do  not  look  on  years  as  we  dp 
in  childhood  and  youth.  Ilowr  long  are  the  days  then,  and  the 
years  !  it  seems  as  if  they  would  never  end  ;  but  they  pass 
more  and  more  fleetly,  dropping  one  after  another  into  the 
strangely  mingled  sea  that  is  behind  us,  and  before  we  are 
aware  the  shadows  are  lengthening  from  the  sunset. 

There  was  a  sprinkle  of  gray  among  the  yet  thick  locks  of 
Mr.  Knight,  and  the  smooth  brown  hair  of  the  wife  and  mother 
was  now  under  a  plain  cap,  though  you  might  see  a  few  be¬ 
traying  lines  of  silver.  Their  home  was  no  longer  in  the  cabin 
in  which  their  first  wedded  years  were  passed,  for  there  came 
more  to  dwell  in  it  than  there  was  room  for,  and,  with  larger 
means,  an  ampler  and  more  convenient  habitation  had  been 
provided.  They  occupied  a  plain  substantial  brick  house  when 
I  knew  them,  having  about  them  all  the  conveniences  of  comfort, 
if  not  of  elegance,  and  as  I  said  “  daughters  and  sons  of  beauty” 
to  gladden  with  the  freshness  of  youth  the  worn  experiences 
and  common  realities  of  life. 

“  As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is,”  Tennyson  says,  and  though 
generally  this  may  be  true,  it  is  not  always  so,  and  Mrs. 
Knight  was  an  exception  to  the  rule.  Had  she  evinced  in  the 
management  of  her  house  and  children  the  spirit  and  tact  of 
her  husband  in  the  management  of  his  affairs,  home  would  not 


TWO  VISITS, 


111 


have  been  the  uninviting  place  it  was.  The  little  arts  which 
beautify  and  adorn  and  make  comfortable  the  humblest  cabin, 
she  knew  nothing  about.  True,  she  had  been  in  early  life 
accustomed  to  privations,  for  rigid  economy  was  then  necessary, 
and  nothing  beyond  actual  wants  was  thought  of.  But  with 
more  liberal  means  there  came  to  her  no  desires  transcending 
any  strict  necessity. 

The  fashion  of  the  times  had  changed,  and  the  requirements 
of  people  “  in  society  ”  were  greatly  enlarged,  but  Mrs.  Knight 
remained  far  behind  everybody  else,  partly  that  she  thought 
herself  unworthy  to  fare  better  than  her  grandmother,  and 
partly  that  life  seemed  to  her  too  sorrowful  a  thing  to  bedeck 
with  any  ornaments,  for,  as  I  said  before,  she  had  a  wonderfully 
quick  apprehension  for  what  was  evil ;  and  perhaps,  too,  she 
was  over  frugal. 

It  is  a  great  while — I  scarcely  dare  suggest  how  long — since 
I  first  visited  her,  but  all  that  then  occurred  is  as  fresh  in  my 
memory  as  if  it  were  an  incident  of  yesterday.  The  chimney 
tops  were  in  view  of  my  own  home,  and  as  Mr.  Knight  often 
passed  our  house  on  his  way  to  market,  I  knew  him  very  well, 
and  he  had  often  invited  me  to  visit  his  wife,  which  I  had  never 
felt  at  liberty,  from  her  retiring  manners,  to  do.  At  length, 
however,  I  resolved,  at  least  to  show  myself  friendly,  for  per¬ 
haps,  thought  I,  the  fault  has  not  been  all  on  her  side.  So,  one 
pleasant  afternoon  in  October,  I  arrayed  myself  in  a  gingham 
dress,  which  had  been  washed  and  ironed,  and  with  the  stoutest 
pair  of  shoes  and  the  oldest  bonnet  I  had — selecting  my 
costume  with  a  view  to  the  prejudices  of  the  w.oman  I  was  to 
visit — speedily  after  dinner,  which  was  at  one  o’clock,  set  out, 
carrying  a  bundle  of  sewing  which  would  have  served  me 
at  home  for  a  week.  1  soon  reached  the  farm,  and,  as  I  was 
passing  through  the  fennel  that  fringed  the  roadside,  came  to 
an  opening  in  the  fence,  where,  seated  on  rails  that  slanted  to 
the  ground,  were  two  little  black-eyed  girls,  whom  I  recognized 
as  the  youngest  children  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Knight. 

“  What  are  you  doing  here,  my  little  friends  V  I  said,  pausing 
a  moment ;  but  neither  answered  a  word,  and  the  youngest — 
ten  years  old,  perhaps — seized  a  rough  club  which  lay  beside 


112 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


her.  and  ran  violently  in  the  direction  of  a  drove  of  cattle, 
mostly  fine  milch  cows,  peaceably  feeding  in  the  pasture  which 
bordered  the  roadside. 

The  older  sister,  after  picking  the  briars  from  her  toes  with  a 
brass  pin,  turned  her  blushing  face  half  toward  me,  as  I 
repeated  the  question,  and  added,  “1  am  just  going' to  your 
house,”  and  she  told  me,  biting  the  hem  of  her  sleeve,  that 
they  were  “  tending  the  gap,”  for  that  papa  and  mamma  were 
both  gathering  apples  in  the  orchard  beyond  the  meadow,  and 
the  fence  was  down  for  them  to  drive  home.  As  I  spoke,  I 
saw  the  team  approaching,  and,  leaning  on  the  fence,  waited  its 
coming  near  us,  resolved  to  tell  Mr.  Knight  of  my  good 
intentions,  and  await  a  more  opportune  season  for  my  visit. 
But  the  good  "man  would  not  hear  a  word  of  my  returning 
home,  and  forcing  a  dozen  apples  of  different  kinds  into  my 
hands,  he  said,  “  A  pretty  piece  of  work,  to-beTsure,  that  we 
should  be  disappointed  of  seeing  you.  Rachel  happens  to  be 
in  the  orchard,  but  there  is  no  need  of  it — Jane  Anne  !”  he 
cried  to  the  little  girls,  “  leave  off  your  chasing  them  are  crit¬ 
ters,  and  run  and  tell  your  mammy  that  company  is  at  the  house 
• — clicket,  you  good-for-nothings  !”  This  last  piece  of  advice  I 
thought  quite  gratuitous,  for  they  set  off  at  such  a  rate  that 
one  might  have  said, 

“  The  tempest  itself  lags  behind, 

And  the  swift-winged  arrows  of  light.” 

Thus  encouraged,  I  went  forward,  and  was  soon  at  the  house. 

11. 

Mr.  Knight  informed  me  as  he  opened  the  gate,  that  he 
should  be  at  the  cider-press  till  supper  time,  but  that  Rachel 
and  the  girls  would  entertain  me  ;  and  he  added  an  expression 
of  regret  that  he  was  not  himself  more  at  leisure.  As  I 
entered  the  yard,  I  saw  that  there  were  no  walks  cut  through 
the  sod,  and  that  the  grass  was  trampled  away  as  it  chanced, 
and  beneath  the  tree  (there  was  but  one  near  the  house)  trodden 
quite  bare  ;  and  torn  pieces  of  calico,  bits  of  boards,  and  broken 
china,  spoke  of  a  demolished  play-house.  There  were  no 


TWO  VISITS. 


113 


flowers,  nor  snrubs  to  be  seen,  except  a  spindling  “Jacob’s 
Ladder  ”  which  grew  in  a  broken  teapot,  beneath  the  parlor 
window. 

I  rapt  smartly  at  the  front  door,  but  received  no  answer. 
Indeed,  after  listening  a  moment,  I  was  satisfied  I  should  not 
be  able  to  make  myself  hea^d,  for  from  a  chamber  window 
came  a  sound  like  small  thunder.  The  young  ladies  were 
spinning  wool,  and  running  races,  as  it  seemed  by  the  whurr, 
buzz  and  tumult,  that  came  to  my  ears  ;  so,  after  a  little 
reflection,  I  concluded  to  sit  down  on  the  steps  and  wait  the 
coming  of  Mrs.  Knight,  but  the  husband,  seeing  this,  called  to 
me  to  go  right  in  and  make  myself  at  home,  and  feeling  that 
my  delay  would  annoy  him,  I  did  so.  But  as  he  leaned  back 
over  the  three  bundles  of  rye  through  which  the  gleam  of  the 
red  apples  shone,  I  could  see  that  he  was  not  smiling.  The 
door  opened  immediately  into  the  parlor,  and  seating  myself 
there,  I  had  some  leisure  for  a  survey  of  the  style  in  which  our 
neighbors  were  living.  The  walls  were  bare,  but  white-washed  ; 
the  floor  was  covered  with  a  home-made  carpet,  striped  alter 
nately  with  green  and  red  and  yellow  ;  six  black  Windsor  chairs 
stood  in  a  straight  line  against  the  wall  ;  a  bed  with  a  white 
muslin  tester  was  in  one  corner  ;  and  an  old-fashioned  bureau, 
on  which  lay  a  Bible  and  hymn-book,  and  a  breakfast  table, 
covered  with  a  green  and  red  oil-cloth,  completed  the  furniture, 
except  that  the  windows  were  shaded  with  highly-colored  wall¬ 
paper.  On  one  side  of  the  chimney  was  a  cupboard  with  glazed 
doors,  originally  designed  for  china,  but  filled  with  a  variety  of 
coverlids,  varying  in  color  from  the  faintest  blue  to  the  deepest 
red  that  could  be' dyed  with  pokeberries  and  pumpkin  rinds. 
All  was  stiff  and  angular,  and  a  smell  of  paint  pervaded  the 
atmosphere. 

Many  times  I  fancied  I  heard  the  creak  of  the  gate ;  and  at 
last,  weary  of  waiting,  I  went  to  the  window,  assured  that  I 
detected  steps  and  voices.  Nor  was  I  mistaken,  for  beneath  the 
window,  wringing  a  fleece  of  wool  from  the  dye,  and  spreading 
it  out  on  the  grass,  was  Mrs.  Knight.  I  was  about  tapping 
on  the  window,  to  inform  her  of  my  presence,  when  she  spoke 
so  harshly  to  the  children,  who  were  getting  their  play-house  to 


114 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


rights,  that  I  resumed  my  seat,  resolved  to  await  her  leisure ; 
and  when  her  work  was  completed,  with  hands  the  color  of  an 
indigo  bag,  I  perceived  that  she  bent  her  steps  in  the  direction 
of  the  kitchen. 

The  time  I  deemed  sufficient  for  any  little  preparation  she 
might  wish  to  make  went  by,  and  I  began  to  find  my  position 
rather  awkward,  especially  as  I  could  hear  her,  apparently 
engaged  in  household  duties,  as  though  altogether  unadvised  of 
my  being  in  the  house.  The  children  now  began  to  climb  up 
at  the  window,  and  looked  in  at  me,  laughing  and  hiding  their 
heads  alternately. 

“  Is  your  mother  at  home I  asked,  thinking  still  she  was 
ignorant  of  mv  being  there.  It  was  some  time  before  I  could 
get  an  intelligible  response,  and  then  I  was  told  that  she  was 
making  bread  in  the  kitchen. 

I  was  half  inclined  to  return  home,  but  remembering  Mr. 
Knight’s  efforts  toward  sociability,  I  determined  to  press  still 
further,  and,  retreating  from  my  position,  I  stepped  to  the  door 
of  the  kitchen,  and  made  a  sort  of  half  apologetic  observation  in 
answer  to  the  unsmiling  face  which  presented  itself ;  and  on 
helping  myself  to  a  chair,  as  I  was  bidden,  I  followed  my  uneasy 
salutation  with  some  deprecatory  remarks,  in  a  subdued  tone, 
on  the  circumstances  of  our  meeting,  and  of  the  pleasures  of 
agreeable  neighborhood. 

The  day  was  warm,  the  sun  streamed  against  uncurtained 
windows,  the  wood  blazed  in  the  deep  fire-place,  and  the  num¬ 
berless  flies  blackened  the  air  ;  but  the  woman  wrought  on  un¬ 
moved. 

1  drew  my  chair  to  the  open  door,  and,  unfolding  my  work, 
began  to  stitch,  with  great  energy,  talking  the  while  of  such 
things  as  I  supposed  would  interest  her.  She  said  little,  how¬ 
ever,  and  that,  as  it  were,  by  compulsion. 

“  Are  the  young  ladies  well I  said,  after  a  long  silence, 
during  which  I  had  been  examining  the  array  of  pots  and 
skillets  she  was  bringing  about  the  hearth. 

“  The  gals,  if  you  mean  them,  are  well  enough,”  she  an¬ 
swered. 

“  1  have  not  seen  them  for  a  long  while,”  I  remarked. 


TWO  VISITS. 


115 


“  No,  I  guess  you  havn’t,”  she  replied;  “they  are  no  gad¬ 
abouts.”  „ 

I  felt  rebuked,  but  added  that  I  was  not  often  abroad  my- 

«/ 

self,  and  so  should  not  be  likely  to  meet  them. 

“  They  are  spinning,  probably  ?”  I  continued,  after  a  moment. 

She  did  not  reply  directly,  but  wiping  her  face  with  her 
apron,  exclaimed,  ‘  Marcysakes  on  us  !  I  wish  I  was  in  Joppa 
— it’s  so  hot  here  !” 

“  Yes,  it  is  very  warm,”  I  said,  “  but  you  have  cooler 
rooms  ?” 

“  I  have  no  time  to  sit  in  them,”  she  said,  adding  presently, 
“  I  don’t  know  as  it  is  any  difference  about  me — I  am  not  fit 
for  anything  but  to  work,  as  I  know  of.” 

I  attempted  a  smile,  and  suggested  that  she  was  fit  for  any¬ 
thing  proper  for  a  woman,  I  supposed.  She  took  her  chin  in 
her  hand  and  remained  silent,  looking  as  though  she  might  be 
musing  of  the  dead. 

At  this  point  the  youngest  child,  whose  timidity  was  fast 
vanishing,  and  who  felt,  no  doubt,  some  desire  to  amuse  me, 
sprang  upon  the  table,  and  seizing  a  newspaper,  from  among  a 
number  that  were  strung  over  a  cord  attached  to  the  wall  near 
the  ceiling,  began  showing  me  a  picture  of  the  president,  with 
which  it  was  embellished. 

“  Is  that  the  way  you  sarve  your  father’s  papers  !”  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Knight ;  “I’ll  president  you,  if  you  don't  put  that  up.” 

Mr.  Knight  was  a  man  of  some  intelligence,  took  a  political 
newspaper,  which  he  read,  and  was  pretty  well  versed  in  affairs 
generally,  but  to  the  rest  of  the  family,  the  paper  might  as  well 
have  been  written  in  Greek,  for  all  they  knew  about  it.  It 
was  not  thought  possible,  indeed,  that  they  could  read  or  un¬ 
derstand  anything  contained  in  it,  and  as  soon  as  it  was  read 
by  the  man  of  the  house,  it  was  hung  above  the  reach  of  the 
children,  who  learned  to  regard  it  as  something  especially 
designed  for  old  men  in  spectacles  to  look  at  on  Sundays.  I 
felt  in  part  to  blame  for  the  misdemeanor  of  the- child,  if  mis¬ 
demeanor  it  were,  as  it  was  on  my  account  she  had  violated 
what  seemed  to  be  the  lttw  here.  Therefore  I  was  not  sorry 
when,  taking  a  skimmer  in  her  hand,  Mrs.  Knight  went  into  the 


116 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


cellar  to  attend  to  some  necessary  duty,  as  I  supposed,  for  she 
made  no  explanation  or  apology.  There  was  thus  presented 
a  fine  opportunity  for  the  little  girls  to  display  the  juvenile 
spirit  which  paternal  authority  generally  kept  subdued  within 
them.  They  were  perhaps  a  little  ambitious  too,  for  the 
exhibition  of  some  of  their  various  accomplishments'  before  a 
visitor.  So,  concealing  themselves  from  observation,  though 
not  from  hearing,  they  began. 

“It  rains,  but  it  don’t  wet;  it’s  night,  but  it’s  not  dark; 
and  if  I  was  at  your  house  I’d  go  home,”  said  the  youngest 
evidently  designing  that  I  should  make  the  application. 

“  Oh,  Jane  Anne,  ain’t  you  ashamed  !”  exclaimed  the  eldest, 
and  then,  by  way  of  diverting  my  thoughts,  perhaps,  she 
repeated  a  puzzling  enigma,  which  she  defied  anybody  and 
everybody  to  guess  :  “Four  stiff-stand ers,  four  down-hangers, 
two  crook-abouts,  two  look-abouts,  and  a  whisk-about.” 

“  Eh  !  who  couldn’t  guess  that  % — it’s  nothing  but  a  cow,” 
replied  Jane  Anne  ;  “  I  can  tell  one  that’s  harder  :  now  listen  ;” 
and  though  probably  the  sister  had  heard  the  riddle  a  hundred 
times  before,  she  was  as  attentive  as  if  it  were  the  most  startling 
novelty  : 

'l  Through  a  riddle  and  through  a  reel, 

Through  an  ancient  spinning  wheel — 

Through  the  grass  and  in  the  skies, 

If  you  guess  this  you’ll  be  wise.” 

“  Well,  then,  I  am  wise,  for  it’s  frost,”  replied  Sally  ;  but  I 
doubt  whether  she  could  have  come  to  this  conclusion  so 
readily  from  any  meaning  of  the  words.  “  Now  I’ll  tell  one 
you  can’t  guess  : 

‘  Long  legs,  short  thighs, 

Little  head,  and  no  eyes.’  ” 

“  Tongs,  tongs  !”  shouted  Jane  Anne,  and  continued  : 

“  Round  as  an  apple,  deep  as  a  cup, 

And  all  the  king's  oxon  can’t  draw  it  up.” 

“  Who  don’t  know  that !”  said  Sally,  disdainfully  refusing 
to  guess. 

I  need  not  repeat  more  of  the  original  and  ingenious  rhymes, 
with  which  they  tested  each  otlier’s  wit,  further  than  to  state 


TWO  VISITS. 


117 


that  they  were  just  breaking  up  what  they  termed  their  riddle 
party,  in  the  ceremonial  of— 

“  Oneary,  oreary,  lottery  Kay, 

English  minglish  Jonathan  Day — 

One,  two,  three — out  goes  she  1” 

“  Out  goes  she,  I  think  !”  exclaimed  the  mother,  suddenly 
appearing,  with  a  great  basin  of  milk  in  her  hands,  which, 
having  disposed  of,  she  took  the  children,  one  at  a  time,  by  the 
ear,  and  leading  them  directly  before  me,  in  order  to  make 
them  the  more  ashamed,  imprisoned  one  in  the  pantry,  and  the 
other  in  the  smoke-house,  where  for  the  present  I  leave  them. 

“  Dear  me,  I  don’t  know  what  will  become  of  us  all,”  said 
the  outraged  mother,  speaking  rather  to  herself  than  to  me,  as 
the  excitement  of  the  arrest  subsided  a  little. 

“  Children  will  be  children,”  said  I,  by  way  of  consolation, 
and  supposing  she  alluded  to  them. 

She  was  seated  on  a  low  door  step,  near  me  but  not  facing 
me,  and,  with  her  head  dropt  on  her  bosom,  continued  talking 
to  the  air,  something  after  this  wise  :  “  Massy  on  us !  I  don’t 
know  what  to  do,  nor  what  will  become  of  us — all  will  go  to 
rack  and  ruin  !  Chasing  the  cows  and  one  thing  and  another — 
strange  the  child  had  no  more  consideration — her  new  frock — 
she  has  torn  a  great  three-cornered  place  in  the  skirt,  and  I 
don’t  see  how  we  are  to  make  any  money — apples  don’t  bring 
anything — nothing  ever  does  that  we  have  to  sell — butter  is 
down  to  a  quarter,  and  we  eat  half  we  make — if  it  wasn’t,  I 
can’t  begin  to  count  my  troubles.” 

“  I  suppose,”  1  interrupted,  “  we  could  all  recollect  some 
troubles  if  we  were  to  try  ;  but  if  we  look  round,  we  may 
commonly  see  people  worse  off and,  to  divert  her  thoughts,  I 
spoke  of  the  widow  Day,  a  poor  woman  with  twro  little  boys, 
one  of  whom  was  lying  sick. 

Yes,”  she  answered,  “  there  are  people  even  worse  off  than 
we — but  we’ll  all  be  done  with  life  pretty  soon  :  it  won’t  be  long.” 

“  It  seems  only  a  little  time  to  those  who  stay  here  longest,” 

I  said ;  “  but  while  we  are  here,  it  is  best  to  avail  ourselves  of 
every  harmless  means  of  enjoyment  in  our  power,  and  you 
have  as  much  to  make  you  happy  as  most  persons.” 


118 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“  I  can  work  hard  and  fare  hard,  and  yet  no  thanks,”  she 
replied,  looking  mournfully  on  the  ground,  her  thin  face  full  of 
untimely  wrinkles. 

There  was  no  need,  that  1  could  see,  of  her  working  hard  or 
faring  hard.  She  seemed  to  like  privation,  to  feel  that  sacrifice 
was  not  only  a  duty,  but  a  privilege. 

While  I  was  deliberating  what  I  would  say  next,  a  man  who 
was  carrying  earthen  pumps  about  the  country,  presented  him¬ 
self,  and  asked  whether  her  husband  would  not  like  to  procure 
one  ;  saying,  as  he  glanced  at  the  well,  “  I  see  you  use  the 
hard  old-fashioned  sweep  ?” 

“  Yes,  and  I  expect  to  use  it  a  good  while  longer,”  she 
replied  :  “  we  don’t  want  any  pump,  and  if  we  did,  we  are  not 
able  to  get  it.” 

“  You  own  this  farm,  I  suppose the  man  said,  glancing 
over  the  broad,  well-cultivated  fields. 

“Yes,  but  money  don’t  grow  on  bushes,”  rejoined  Mrs. 
Knight,  “  and  we  have  our  taxes  to  pay,  and  the  children  will 
all  be  wanting  shoes,  the  first  thing,  you  know — the  frosts 
come  so  airly  of  late  years.” 

“  I  sold  one  at  the  white  house,  yonder,  and  they  are 
delighted  with  it.  You  have  no  idea  of  the  ease  and  comfort 
and  beauty  of  the  thing  ;  and,  so  far  from  adulterating  the 
water,  I  think  it  rather  has  purifying  qualities.” 

“  The  folks  in  the  white  house  are  rich,”  said  the  unhappy 
woman,  “  and  able  to  get  a  gold  pump  if  they  wanted  it ;  but 
I  told  you  we  had  no  money  to  spend  for  pumps,  and  I  shouldn’t 
want  it  if  we  had,  for  we  once  had  one  that  fairly  made  the 
water  blue.” 

The  man  assured  her  his  patent  stone-wrare  pump  was  quite 
unexceptionable,  and  saying  he  would  call  when  her  husband 
was  in,  asked  the  privilege  of  lighting  a  cigar,  which  he  had 
been  twirling  in  his  fingers  during  the  conversation.  As  he 
stooped  over  the  row  of  skillets,  spiders,  Dutch  ovens,  and 
the  like,  in  which  bread  was  rising,  before  fire,  hot  enough  to 
roast  an  ox,  he  remarked  that  he  was  an  agent  for  one  of  the 
most  celebrated  cooking-stoves  in  use. 

“  Well,”  said  Mrs.  Knight,  seeing  that  he  paused  for  a 


TWO  VISITS. 


119 


reply,  “  keep  them,  for  all  me  ;  I  don’t  like  your  stoves  nor 
the  smell  of  your  tobaccar.” 

Though  the  pump  had  been  far  better  than  represented,  she 
would  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  The  old  way,  she  said, 
was  good  enough  for  her — she  should  not  want  anything  long. 
She  seemed  to  think  whatever  lessened  labor  was  a  grievous 
wrong  ;  and  whatever  tended  to  pleasure,  was  something  with 
which  she  or  her  family  by  no  possibility  could  have  anything 
to  do. 

Modern  fashions  were  also  prohibited  ;  the  cut  of  her  gown 
and  the  shape  of  her  bonnet  had  been  common  ten  or  fifteen 
years  before — it  required  that  length  of  time  for  the  sinfulness 
to  get  out  of  their  cut,  I  suppose. 

There  are  people,  and  Mrs.  Knight  was  of  them,  who  stand 
aloof  and  seem  to  feel  themselves  fated  to  stand  aloof  from  the 
general  interests  and  enjoyments  of  life. 

If  her  husband  prevailed  on  her  to  go  and  hear  a  Fourth  of 
July  oration,  she  dressed  her  children  like  miniature  men  and 

V  / 

women,  in  long  narrow  skirt  and  fur  hats,  kept  them  sitting 
stiff  and  upright  close  beside  her  during  the  blessed  intermis¬ 
sion,  when  other  children  bought  beer  and  gingercakes,  and  re¬ 
turned  home  before  the  dinner  was  served  under  the  long  green 
arbor ;  and  while  other  girls  marched  in  procession,  with  white 
dresses,  and  roses  in  their  hair,  to  partake  of  the  roast  pigs  and 
green  peas,  her  daughters,  in  dark  calico  frocks  and  winter  bon¬ 
nets,  marched  to  their  usual  fried  pork  and  sprouted  potatoes. 

If  they  were  permitted  to  go  to  a  quilting,  they  were 
instructed  to  come  home  in  time  to  milk,  and  thus  were  de¬ 
prived  of  all  the  real  enjoyment  of  the  occasion.  It  was  not 
for  them  to  remain  to  the  “play-party,”  when  the  quilt  was 
swung  up  tfo  the  ceiling,  and  the  young  men  came  in,  with  candy 
and  cinnamon  in  their  pockets.  Many  a  time  had  the  young 
women  gone  to  bed  with  aching  hearts  to  hear  in  dreams  the 
music  of — 

“We  are  marching  forward  to  Quebec 
And  the  drums  are  loudly  beating, 

America  has  gained  the  day 
And  the  British  are  retreating. 

The  wars  are  o’er  and  we’ll  turn  back, 

And  never  more  be  parted  ; 


120 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


So  open  the  ring  and  choose  another  in 
That  you  think  will  prove  true-hearted.” 

They  might  both  have  been  dreaming  and  spinning  in  the  old 
chamber  to  this  day,  as  indeed  one  of  them  is,  but  for  a  little 
stratagem,  in  which  1  had  some  share.  But  I  am  getting  before 
my  story.  The  prisons  of  the  little  girls  were  opened  at  last, 
and  they  came  forth — each 


“  With  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye, 

As  if  its  lid  were  charged  with  unshed  tears 


but  their  spirits  were  elastic,  and  the  excitement  of  running 
down  and  catching  a  couple  of  chickens  for  supper,  soon  pro¬ 
duced  the  wildest  gayety. 

“  Now  go  long  with  you  and  wring  off  their  heads,”  said  the 
mother,  “  while  I  grind  my  butcher-knife.” 

And  with  streaming  hair,  flushed  faces,  and  dresses  torn,  they 
bore  off  their  captives  to  execution  as  jocundly  as  they  would 
have  fed  them.  The  fun  was  presently  over,  however;  one  of 
the  party,  in  racing,  had  bruised  her  naked  foot  on  a  stone,  and 
sitting  on  the  ground  she  took  it  in  her  lap  and  bathed  the  injured 
place  with  her  tears.  “  If  mother  would  let  me  wear  shoes,” 
she  said,  “  I  would  not  have  done  it,”  and  half  in  anger,  half  in 
sorrow  she  cried  aloud. 

“  Not  another  word  out  of  your  head,”  exclaimed  the  mother; 
“  ain’t  you  warm  enough  without  your  feet  bundled  up  V 

“Yes;  but  Mary  Whitfield  wears  shoes  and  stockings  too, 
all  the  time.” 

“You  can’t  be  Mary  Whitfield,”  replied  the  mother;  “so 
twist  up  your  hair  and  go  out  and  help  your  sister  hoe  the  cur¬ 
rant  bushes.” 

“  Dingnation  on  it  all !”  cried  the  child,  as  the  mother  ad¬ 
journed  to  the  vicinity  of  the  pig-pen  to  pick  the  feathers  from 
her  chickens,  “  I  wish  I  had  hurt  myself  so  bad  that  I  could  not 
work.” 

“  Come  on,  Sal,”  said  Jane,  bringing  two  hoes  from  the  smoke 
house,  “  come  on  and  cut  your  toe  off ;”  and  wiping  her  face, 
bloody  with  her  late  murderous  work,  on  her  sleeves,  she  gave 
a  series  of  jumps  beside  the  long  hoe  handles,  calling  it  riding 
on  horseback,  and  disappeared  in  the  garden.  Sally  prepared 
to  follow,  hobbling  on  her  heel  to  keep  the  bruised  portion  of 


TWO  VISITS. 


121 


her  foot  off  the  ground  ;  but  the  tears  were  yet  on  her  face  ;  and 
I  called  to  her  to  wait  a  moment.  It  was  not  much,  but  I  did 
what  I  could  ;  and  when  her  foot  had  been  bathed  and  band¬ 
aged,  her  face  washed,  and  her  head  combed,  the  grateful  smile 
that  lit  up  her  countenance  made  her  almost  beautiful.  I  could 
not  help  feeling  what  a  pity  and  shame  it  was  that  all  refine¬ 
ment  must  be  drilled  out  of  her  nature,  and  all  its  graces 
blunted  and  dimmed,  by  the  drudgery  of  unwomanly  tasks. 
She  was  a  much  prettier  and  more  sprightly  girl  than  Mary 
Whitfield  ;  but  so  far  from  having  her  natural  attractions  height¬ 
ened  by  education  and  any  familiarity  with  refined  society,  as 
hers  were,  she  was  growing  into  womanhood,  not  merely  in  rus¬ 
ticity,  but  so  encrusted  with  actual  vulgarity,  that  she  would 
not  be  able  to  break  out  of  it  by  any  efforts  of  maturer  years. 
Sally  Knight  sounded  as  well  as  Mary  Whitfield,  for  ought  I  could 
see,  and  with  the  same  advantages  the  former  would  have  been 
vastly  superior  to  the  latter;  but  in  her  mother’s  opinion  she 
was  proscribed.  True,  she  was  a  farmer’s  daughter,  and  would 
probably  be  a  farmer’s  wife  ;  but  for  that  reason  must  she  be 
debarred  all  the  little  accomplishments  which  chiefly  distinguish 
civilized  from  savage  life'?  I  thought  not.  In  this  democratic 
country,  where  the  humblest  girl  may,  under  possible  circum¬ 
stances,  aspire  to  the  highest  positions,  it  is  a  wickedness  for  pa¬ 
rents,  or  any  one  in  authority,  to  fasten  a  brand  of  ignominy 
on  a  child,  as  it  were,  crippling  her  energies  and  circumscribing 
her  movements  for  life.  If  the  complexion  must  be  scorched 
and  roughened,  the  joints  stiffened  and  enlarged  by  overtasks, 
the  mind  vulgarized  by  epithets  required  or  continually  used  in 
coarse  employments,  let  it  be  at  the  demand  of  inevitable  mis¬ 
fortune,  not  at  that  of  a  misguided  will. 

Mrs.  Knight  had  been  mortified  when  she  found  her  daughters 
indulging  in  the  jargon  I  have  reported,  and  so  imprisoned  them, 
as  I  have  described  ;  but  if  she  had  accustomed  herself  to 
spend  some  portion  of  the  day  devoted  to  scolding  the  chil¬ 
dren,  in  their  cultivation,  few  punishments  of  any  kind  would 
have  been  required.  If  they  had  known  anything  sensible, 
they  would  probably  not  have  been  repeating  the  nonsense 
which  seemed  to  please  them  so.  But  they  had  no  books 

6 


122 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


suited  to  their  years,  and  consequently  they  thought  books 
only  designed  for  wise  old  men  and  preachers  ;  as  for  the 
newspaper,  they  supposed  it  was  all  one  long  president’s 
message,  or  something  of  that  sort,  for  none  of  its  lighter 
articles  did  they  ever  hear,  and  it  was  no  wonder  they  grew 
tired  and  fell  asleep  when  required  to  sit  still  through  the 
reading  of  a  congressional  speech  ;  and  of  course  they  never 
touched  the  paper  except  to  hang  it  against  the  ceiling.  When 
I  told  Mrs.  Knight  that  I  had  some  prettily  illustrated  stories 
at  home  which  might  please  her  little  girls,  she  said  she  had 
something  else  for  them  to  do  ;  and  when  I  asked  if  they  were 
to  go  to  the  new  academy,  she  replied  that  they  had  as  much 
education  now  as  ever  their  mother  had,  and  besides,  they  had 
not  the  money  to  spare,  and  their  troubles  were  not  to  be  less¬ 
ened  in  any  way  that  she  knew  of ;  but  if  they  were,  academies 
were  not  built  for  the  like  of  her  girls.  She  kept  so  busy 
during  all  the  afternoon,  that  I  felt  sadly  intrusive,  but  she  told 
me  I  could  never  have  been  less  troublesome  than  then,  if  I 
had  waited  twenty  years,  and  with  this  comforting  assurance  I 
remained  to  tea. 

III. 

The  sunshine  was  streaming  across  the  porch  where  I  was 
sitting,  and  Mrs.  Knight  was  spreading  her  table,  when  the 
children  came  galloping  breathlessly  in,  informing  her  that  Mr. 
Sisco  was  coming.  Suddenly  the  wheels  ceased  their  rum¬ 
bling,  and  a  rap  sounded  on  the  front  door. 

“Mammy,  mammy,  shall  I  go asked  the  girls. 

“No;  if  he  want’s  to  see  folks,  let  him  come  where  folks 
are  ;  go  up-stairs  and  tell  your  sisters  to  get  on  with  their 
spinning and  presently  the  wheels  began  to  rumble,  and 
the  young  man  came  back  to  the  kitchen. 

He  was  evidently  returning  from  a  military  muster,  for  a 
dashing  cockade  ornamented  his  hat,  strips  of  red  tape  covered 
the  outer  seams  of  his  trowsers,  and  a  blue  sash  formed  his 
girdle,  and  hung  in  long  floats  over  the  scabbard  of  his  sword. 
He  seemed  from  his  flushed  countenance  and  the  bloody  .spurs 
attached  to  his- boots,  to  have  been  “pricking  hard.”  in  Ins 


TWO  VISITS. 


123 


hand  he  held  a  small  switch,  of  which  some  harmless  bough 
had  recently  been  deprived,  and  with  this  he  inflicted  a  series 
of  sharp  quick  blows  on  his  lower  limbs,  which,  from  their 
shrinking  and  trembling,  I  could  not  help  believing  were  quite 
undeserving  of  such  treatment.  He  perhaps  intended  it  as  a 
penance  for  the  sin  he  was  committing  in  calling  on  the  young 
ladies  in  a  busy  week-day  afternoon,  for  doubtless  the  visit  was 
designed  for  them,  though  he  did  not  mention  their  names. 

Mrs.  Knight  continued  her  preparations  for  supper,  neither 
making  me  acquainted  with  the  stranger,  nor  saying  anything 
to  him  herself.  His  ostensible  object  was  to  procure  a  glass 
of  water,  but  from  his  wistful  and  embarrassed  look  I  inferred 
another  motive,  and  so  essayed  my  powers  of  detaining  and 
entertaining  him,  till  Jemima  and  Hetty  should  come  down. 
“  A  very  warm  day,  sir,  for  the  season.”  I  said. 

“  Yes  ’am,  ’tis  very  warm.” 

“It  is  time  for  us  to  expect  the  long  autumn  rains,”  I  con¬ 
tinued,  “  but  I  see  no  clouds.” 

“  No,  mem.” 

I  was  at  a  loss  what  to  say,  but  his  regalia  suggested  : 
“Training  day,  it  has  been  with  you,  I  see.” 

“Yes,  mem.” 

“There  is  some  falling  off  of  interest  in  these  exercises  of 
late  years 

He  made  no  immediate  reply,  but  soon  looked  more  directly 
toward  me,  and  said,  “  What  did  you  observe 

“  Musters  are  not  so  attractive  as  they  used  to  be.” 

“No,  mem.” 

“  I  have  been  inclined  to  think  the  most  undisciplined  soldiers 
fight  as  well  as  you  who  are  skilled  in  arms,”  I  said  ;  but  the 
compliment  disconcerted  him,  and  he  abruptly  said  “  Good 
evening,  mem,”  and  turned  toward  the  door. 

“What  is  your  hurry?”  asked  Mr.  Knight,  just  returned 
home  from  the  cider-press.  “  Sit  down,  sit  down,  and  let  me 
take  your  hat.”  So  saying,  he  carried  it  off,  cockade  and  all, 
into  the  front  room,  where,  when  the  windows  were  thrown 
open,  we  were  invited  to  sit. 

“  Mother,”  he  said,  when,  having  performed  his  ablutions,  he 


124 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


withdrew  to  the  middle  of  the  dooryard  to  comb  his  hair,  “why 
in  the  world  did  n’t  you  open  the  big  room  before 

She  made  no  reply ;  and  the  good  man,  having  sent  Jane 
Anne  above  stairs  to  tell  her  sisters  to  come  below,  joined  us 
in  the  parlor. 

“  How  is  the  potato  crop  with  you  ?”  he  inquired,  tipping  his 
chair  against  the  bed,  the  starry  counterpane  of  which  was 
surmounted  by  the  young  man’s  hat. 

“  Our  late  potaters  are  spilt  with  the  rot,  and  our  airly  ones 
were  pretty  much  eat  up  with  bugs — little  yaller  and  black 
fellers.  Mammy  took  a  bres'h  one  morning  and  breshed  them 
out  of  the  garden  patch ;  it  appeared  like  the  whole  ken  try 
would  be  overrun  with  them,  there  was  so  many,  she  said, 
when  they  buzzed  up.” 

“  The  moles  have  been  at  work  in  mine  pretty  badly,”  said 
the  farmer  ;  “I  wish  I  knew  how  to  get  rid  of  them.” 

“  If  some  dogs  were  as  good  to  ketch  moles  as  they  be  to 
ketch  sheep,  you  might  get  shut  of  them.” 

“  Why — any  disturbance  among  the  folds  hereabouts  V' 

“  Ourn  was  disturbed  night-afore  last  a  little,  I  should  think ; 
we  only  lost  fifteen  !”  And  Mr.  Sisco  took  a  large  bandanna 
from  one  pocket  and  placed  it  in  another. 

“  Is  it  possible  !”  exclaimed  Mr.  Knight ;  “  and  you  knew 
nothing  of  it1?” 

“  I,”  replied  the  military  youth,  “  slep  as  sound  as  a  roach, 
but  mammy  said  she  was  awake  along  in  the  night,  and  she 
heard  Towser  bark  as  cross  as  he  could  be,  and  thought  the 
fence  rattled  too,  she  said  ;  but  she  was  dozy-like,  and  went  to 
sleep  again,  and  irnthe  morn  in’  she  alowed  how  if  she  had  got 
up  she  might  have  seen  the  dogs,  for  like  enough  they  had  one 
of  the  old  ewes  down  then.” 

“  Humph  !”  said  Mr.  Knight,  and  really  I  don’t  know  what 
better  he  could  have  said  ;  and  rising,  he  brought  in  a  pitcher 
of  sweet  cider,  and  a  small  basket  of  very  fine  apples. 

Meantime  the  wheels  stood  still ;  and  from  the  frequent 
and  lively  snappings  of  the’ reel,  it  appeared  that  the  yarn  was 
being  wound  from  the  spindles.  Then  came  a  creaking  and 
squeaking  of  the  floor,  as  the  bare  feet  pattered  briskly  across 


TWO  VISITS. 


125 


it ;  then  openings  and  closings  of  drawers  and  doors  ;  and  the 
young  ladies  were  evidently  preparing  to  descend.  In  this 
opinion  I  was  confirmed  when  Sally  hobbled  past  the  steps 
with  her  bib  full  of  fresh-gathered  mullen  leaves.  Cheeks  were 
to  be  made  red — there  was  no  doubt  about  it.  Half  an  hour 
later,  when  the  sun  burned  faintly  through  the  tree  tops,  Mrs. 
Knight  took  from  the  nail  where  it  hung,  a  long  tin  horn,  and 
blew  as  though  she  meant  to  be  heard  half  through  the 
country. 

“  Now  run  right  along  for  the  cows,”  she  said  ;  and  “forth 
limped,  with  slow  and  crippled  pace,”  poor  Sally,  preceded  by 
the  n\ore  nimble  and  light-hearted  Jane.  They  did  n’t  leave  the 
warm  precincts  of  the  supper,  however,  without  casting  “  many 
a  longing,  lingering  look  behind.” 

“Go  'long,”  called  the  mother;  “who  do  you  think  wants 
you  V1 

Thus  depreciated  and  warned,  they  skulked  by  the  fence- 
side  as  though  they  were  scarcely  privileged  to  walk  directly 
and  upright,  even  to  drive  home  the  cows.  Poor  children — 
their  mother  was  quite  too  meek.  Unless  she  taught  them  to 
show  in  action  that  they  respected  themselves,  how  could  she 
hope  for  others  to  respect  them  ! 

Shaming  the  sunset,  were  the  fiery  spots,  with  jagged  edges, 
that  burned  in  the  cheeks  of  the  young  women,  as  they  curtsied, 
and  shook  hands  across  the  plate  of  chicken  ;  for  they  had 
hurried  past  the  parlor  without  making  any  salutation. 

The  arrangement  of  their  hair  was  without  any  regard  to 
modern  fashion  ;  their  dresses  were  neither  new  nor  clean  ;  they 
were  without  stockings,  and  their  shoes  were  of  thick  calfskin. 

Though  naturally  intelligent  enough,  and  pretty  enough,  under 
their  accumulated  disadvantages,  the  woods  certainly  seemed  to 
be  the  fittest  place  for  them,  and  when  they  had  said  “  How  do 
you  do,  Mr.  Francisco  ?”  and  he  had  replied,  “  Hearty  as  a  buck 
• — how  do  you  do  yourselves  V ’  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  fur¬ 
ther  to  say — especially  in  the  terribly  restraining  presence  of 
the  mother.  When  she  had  served  the  tea,  and  while  the  large- 
bladed  knives  were  going  from  hand  to  mouth,  and  indiscrimin¬ 
ately  from  dish  to  dish,  she  removed  her  chair  half  a  yard  from 


126 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


the  table  and  partook  only  of  a  crust  of  bread,  looking  the  while 
on  the  dozen  pins  that  were  stuck  in  the  upper  part  of  her  sleeve. 

“  What  part  of  the  chicken  will  you  have,  mother  ?”  said  the 
husband,  raising  a  piece  on  his  fork,  and  looking  toward  her. 

She  shook  her  head,  still  looking  at  the  pins. 

“  Don’t  eat  the  crust,”  he  said,  passing  a  fresh  slice  of  bread, 
“  it  must  hurt  your  teeth.” 

“  It ’s  no  difference,”  she  answered. 

He  next  offered  her  a  piece  of  apple-pie,  baked  on  a  red 
earthen  dish  about  as  large  as  the  full  moop ;  but  this  she  re¬ 
fused,  as  also  the  dough-nuts.  “  Why,  mother,  ain’t  you  going  to 
eat  any  supper'?”  he  said,  really  distressed. 

“  I  don’t  know  as  it  would  do  any  good,  any  way,”  replied  the 
wife  mournfully  ;  and  with  lips  pursed  up,  she  continued  to  work 
at  the  crust  with  her  two  or  three  front  teeth.  “  Now,  girls,  go 
right  along  and  milk,”  she  said,  as  soon  as  we  had  risen  from  the 
table. 

And,  mounting  on  his  steed,  the  young  man  went  his  way,  while 
the  girls,  from  the  milk  yard,  waved  their  adieus  to  him  ;  and 
this  was  all  the  humanizing  intercourse  on  which  they  ventured 
during  the  gallant’s  visit. 

I  smiled  as  Hetty  began  to  milk  on  the  left-hand  side  of  her 
cow,  but  my  attention  was  speedily  arrested  by  the  stepping  on 
to  the  porch  of  Mrs.  Lytle.  She  looked  tidy,  brisk  and  smiling, 
and  was  bearing  on  her  arm  a  large  basket  of  apples  which  she 
had  just  gathered  ;  for  she  was  the  tenant  of  Mr.  Knight  and 
lived  in  the  old  cabin,  with  her  two  daughters,  Kitty  and  Ady. 
I  could  not  help  contrasting  her  dress,  cheerful  demeanor,  and  the 
living  interest  she  seemed  to  feel  in  the  world,  with  the  meek 
despondency  of  Mrs.  Knight,  and  when  she  insisted  that  1  should 
visit  her  the  day  after  the  next,  I  readily  assented. 

The  reader  must  not  suppose  the  Knights  representatives  of 
country  people  generally — at  least,  they  are  not  fair  specimens 
of  such  as  I  have  known  ;  but  I  am  sorry  to  say  there  are  some 
such  unhappy  exceptions  to  the  general  character  of  the  rural 
population  in  all  the  farming  states  in  which  I  have  any 
acquaintance.  The  young  man  I  have  introduced,  is  a  species 
of  bumpkin  found  no  where  but  in  the  country  ;  nevertheless,  ifc 


TWO  VISITS. 


m 

finds  a  counterpart  in  cities,  in  a  more  sophisticated  and  a  great 
deal  more  despicable  order  of  being.  Naturally  simple-minded, 
and  with  only  the  blood  of  a  hundred  generations  of  yeomen  in 
his  veins,  his  thoughts  seldom  traveled  beyond  the  market  town 
and  the  woods  where  the  sun  seemed  to  set,  except  when  he 
went  to  the  election,  and  voted  for  the  ticket  which  had  been 
supported  by  his  father. 

The  lines  which  divide  rusticity  from  the  affluent  life  in  coun¬ 
try  places,  or  the  experience  of  the  middle  classes  in  towns,  are 
very  sharply  defined;  but  there  are  a  thousand  little  redeeming 
graces  belonging  to  all  humanity  alike,  though  uneducated  per¬ 
sons  are  hard  to  be  persuaded  that  every  thing  pertaining  to 
gentle  pleasures  and  courtesy,  does  not  necessarily  attach  only  to 
the  “  rich  and  well-born.”  Flowers  are  God’s  beautiful  and  free 
gift,  and  they  expand  as  purely  white  or  as  deeply  scarlet  under 
the  window  of  the  poor  man’s  cottage  as  in  the  gardens  of  kings. 

IV. 

On  the  day  appointed  I  prepared  for  my  visit  to  Mrs.  Lytle, 
with  no  very  accurately  defined  expectations  of  pleasure  or  pain. 
Memories  of  my  late  discomfiture  kept  down  any  of  that  pleas¬ 
ing  excitement  so  common  at  the  prospect  of  a  country  visit, 
which  I  might  .otherwise  have  felt  awaking  at  the  prospect  of 
enlarging  my  acquaintance  in  this  part  of  our  neighborhood.  In 
this  work-day  world  new  sensations  are  exceedingly  precious, 
and  this  more  especially  as  the  fast-coming  shadows  of  years 
give  all  the  groundwork  of  life  a  sombre  tinge.  The  eircie  that 
rises  from  our  first  plunge  in  the  sea  of  life  is  bright  and  bound¬ 
ing  ;  but  as  it  widens,  the  sparkle  becomes  dull  and  the  motion 
heavy  and  sluggish,  till  at  last  it  breaks  on  the  shore  of  eternity. 
We  learn  too  soon  the  sorrowful  wisdom  that — 

“  The  past  is  nothing,  and  at  last 
The  future  can  hut  be  the  past 

and  so  the  dew  fades  off  from  the  flowers,  and  the  dust  and  the 
mildew  take  its  place.  One  after  another  of  our  dear  ones  go 
from  us,  either  into  new  spheres  of  love  and  labor,  or  into  that 
darkness  “where  the  eye  cannot  follow  them,”  and  writh  our  feet 
stumbling  among  graves,  the  golden  summer  sunshine  seems 


128 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


only  to  bleach  white  our  hair,  and  not  to  be  heaven’s  loving  bap¬ 
tism  for  the  just  and  the  unjust.  And  pain  knits  itself  with 
pain,  and  complaint  joins  itself  to  complaint,  till  a  thankless,  if 
not  reproachful,  undertone  runs  through  the  world.  Mourning 
for  the  lost  or  the  unattainable,  our  hearts  are  insensible  of  the 
blessings  we  have ;  listening  to  the  low  earth  for  some  comfort 
yet,  we  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the  music  from  above.  The  cloud  rises 
and  we  forget  the  eternal  splendor  of  the  stars.  We  have  need 
of  all  thy  mercy,  Oh  our  Father,  for  daily  and  hourly  forgetful¬ 
ness  of  thy  goodness,  for  the  world  is  full  of  beauty,  and  life, 
though  never  so  much  vexed  with  adverse  fortune  ;  and  this 
being  is  a  great  thing — great,  not  only  in  its  final  results,  and 
as  it  grows  to  its  perfect  glory,  or  dwarfs  in  the  fires  of  ulti¬ 
mate  wrath,  but  in  its  present  capacities  and  powers — only 
below  Omnipotence.  Shall  we  look  abroad  on  the  fashioning 
of  the  Creator — we,  the  perfectest  work  of  his  hands,  and 
unsay  the  benediction,  “It  is  very  good.”  They  are  wrong 
who  estimate  this  wonderful  and  beautiful  existence  either  as  a 
mere  chance  and  vapor  that  the  winds  may  scatter  and  the 
grave  undo,  or  as  a  hard  trial  and  temptation  that  it  were  good 
to  have  past ;  even  taking  the  saddest  view  of  its  narrowness 
and  darkness  and  burdens — even,  if  you  will,  limiting  its 
duration  to  the  borders  of  the  tomb,  “this  .sensible,  warm 
being,”  is  a  good  thing.  If  we  do  not  find  it  so,  the  fault  is  in 
ourselves,  for  in  our  own  perverse  hearts  is  our  greatest  enemy. 
We  will  not  recognize  the  angels  that  sit  at  our  hearthstones 
w7hile  their  wings  are  folding  themselves  about  our  bosoms, 
but  when  they  are  lessening  in  the  azure  overhead  we  exclaim, 
How  beautiful  !  and  reach  forth  our  longing  arms  in  vain. 

We  tread  on  the  flowers  at  our  feet;  and  sigh  for  the 
gardens  of  paradise.  We  put  from  us  the  heart  that  is 
throbbing  with  love,  and  go  through  the  world  tracking  for 
receding  steps.  Life  is  good,  and  I  am  glad  to  live,  despite 
the  pain  and  the  temptation  and  the  sorrow ;  these  must  be 
about  it,  and  there  is  need  that  we  oppose  to  them  all  that 
within  us  which  is  loftiest  and  best.  The  basis  of  every  great 
fabric  rests  in  the  dark  ;  so,  even  though  the  light  of  love  be 
gone  out,  and  the  star  of  hope  shorn  of  its  first  warm  splendors, 


TWO  VISITS. 


129 


we  have  not  only  the  greatest  need  but  the  greatest  encourage¬ 
ment  to  work.  There  are  plants  hardy  enough  for  the  brown 
baked  earth  by  the  cabin  door,  and  birds  to  sing  on  the  low 
eaves  as  well  as  in  the  beautiful  groves  that  environ  palaces. 

But  all  this  is  a  digression. 

I  selected  my  toilet  with  more  scrupulous  care  than  on  the 
occasion  of  my  visit  to  Mrs.  Knight.  I  knew  even  my  new 
bonnet  and  best  silk  gown  would  not  be  deemed  unpardonable 
offences  against  propriety  in  the  estimation  of  Mrs.  Lytle,  who 
always,  despite  her  disadvantages,  looked  tidy  and  smart. 

Her  daughters,  too,  Kitty  and  Ady,  whom  1  had  often 
remarked  at  the  village  church,  were  in  appearance  no  whit 
behind  the  squire’s  or  the  deacon’s  daughters,  except  in  years ; 
they  were  but  just  coming  out,  having  lately  made  their  debut 
at  an  apple-cutting,  where  their  pretty  pink  gingham  dresses, 
white  aprons,  and  quietly  agreeable  manners,  had  been  themes 
of  common  admiration.  True,  some  people,  among  whom  was 
Mrs.  Knight,  thought  “such  flirts  of  girls”  were  better  kept  in 
tow  frocks,  and  in  the  kitchen,  or  at  the  spinning-wheel  ;  but 
the  general  verdict,  and  especially  that  of  the  young  men,  was 
in  their  favor.  The  house  in  which  the  Knights  now  lived,  was 
substantially  built  of  brick,  but  with  intelligent  regard  neither 
for  convenience  nor  taste  ;  no  trees  grew  about  it,  and  standing 
right  up  in  the  sun,  with  its  surrounding  pigstyes,  henroosts, 
stables,  &c.,  in  full  view,  it  looked  comfortless,  though  suffi¬ 
ciently  thrifty. 

The  windows  of  the  chamber  facing  the  sun  were  open  as  I 
passed,  and  within  the  young  women  were  pacing  to  and  fro 
rapidly,  for  their  wheels  sung  invariably  to  the  tune  of  “  sixteen 
cuts  ”  per  day.  Hung  over  the  window  sills,  in  the  sunshine, 
were  several  small  divisions  of  “rolls,”  blue  and  gray,  and  in 
the  side  yard,  her  cap  border  flying,  and  smoke  blowing  in  her 
face,  appeared  the  mother,  raking  chips  beneath  a  soap-kettle. 
“  All  work  and  no  play,”  was  still  the  order  of  her  life. 

In  the  hollow  beyond  this  scene  of  rude  bustle  and  hard 
strife,  I  opened  a  gate,  and,  following  a  narrow  and  deeply  worn 
path,  beside  a  clear  deep  brook,  I  soon  found  myself  in  view 
of  the  tenant  house — a  cabin  of  two  rooms,  originally,  but 

6* 


130 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


with  a  recently  added  kitchen,  of  rough  boards.  It  stood  in  a 
little  nook,  at  the  head  of  the  hollow  traversed  by  the  stream, 
which  had  its  source  beneath  the  grassy  mound,  joined  to  the 
hill  on  one  side,  and  extending  a  little  way  over  the  stone  wall 
and  door  of  slabs,  on  the  other.  A  rude,  irregular  fence  ran 
round  the  base  of  the  ascent,  enclosing  a  small  plot  of  ground, 
with  the  cabin,  and  milk-house — the  last  still  and  cool,  beneath 
the  mound  of  turf,  and  the  first  covered  with  vines  and  hedged 
about  with  trees.  How  cosy  and  even  pretty  it  looked,  with 
the  boughs  full  of  red  apples  close  against  the  wall,  and  clusters 
of  black  grapes  depending  from  the  eaves  !  The  great  flaunting 
flowers  of  the  trumpet-vine  were  gone,  and  the  leaves  on  the 
rose-withes  beneath  the  window  looked  rusty  and  dull,  for  the 
time  of  bright  blossoms  was  long  past,  but  the  plenteous  fruits 
atoned  for  the  lost  flowers,  and  the  waxen  snow-berries,  and 
the  scarlet  buds  of  the  jasmine,  shining  through  the  fading 
leaves,  helped  to  make  the  aspect  of  everything  beautiful,  even 
in  a  forbidding  season. 

The  fence  about  the  yard  was  rude  enough,  but  currant 
bushes  grew  thick  along  its  side,  and  over  the  golden  ridge 
they  made,  in  crimson  curves  and  tangles  glistened  the  smooth 
vines  of  the  raspberry.  There  was  no  gate,  and,  standing  on 
the  stile,  by  which  there  was  admittance  to  the  yard,  I  paused 
a  moment,  in  admiration  of  the  pleasant  sight  before  me. 
The  grass  was  level  and  pretty'',  save  wThere  it  was  broken  up 
for  flower-beds — of  pinks  and  hollihocks  and  poppies — and  over 
a  stump  that  defied  all  present  arts  of  removal,  trailed  the  “  old 
man’s  beard,”  so  that  what  would  else  have  been  a  deformity 
added  to  the  beauty  of  the  scene. 

The  door  of  the  parlor — as  1  judged  it  to  be  from  the  pots 
of  flowers  in  the  windows,  and  the  white  curtains — wras  standing 
open,  and  I  could  see  the  bright  plaided  carpet  on  the  floor  and 
the  snowy  coverlid  of  the  bed — for  everybody  w^ho  has  been 
in  western  country  houses,  knows  that  the  parlor  is  also  the 
spare  bedroom,  in  such  places.  It  looked  snug  and  homelike, 
and  I  could  not  help  comparing  it  with  the  naked  and  rude 
style  of  things  so  lately  under  my  observation.  Turning  in  the 
direction  of  my  thoughts  I  saw  the  little  girls,  Sally  and  Jane, 


TWO  VISITS. 


131 


in  a  field,  midway  between  the  house,  digging  potatoes.  Seeing 
me,  they  struck  up  a  ditty,  which  was  doubtless  meant  for  my 
benefit,  and  the  day  being  still,  and  the  wind  blowing  toward 
me,  I  caught  the  whole  distinctly  :  “Solomon  Grundy,  born  on 
Monday,  christened  on  Tuesday,  married  on  Wednesday,  sick 
on  Thursday,  worse  on  Friday,  died  on  Saturday,  buried  on 
Sunday — and  that  was  the  end  of  Solomon  Grundy  !” 

My  attention  thus  diverted,  I  did  not  hear  the  light  steps  of 
the  young  women  who  had  come  fo^th  to  meet  me,  till  their 
voices  spoke  cordial  welcomes,  which  seemed  to  come  from 
their  merry  hearts,  while  the  smiles  that  glowed  in  their  faces 
made  the  atmosphere  genial  as  spring. 

The  outward  index  had  not  been  too  favorable  a  voucher, 
and  that  cabin  parlor  with  its  fiowrers  and  books,  scrupulous 
cleanliness,  and  tasteful  arrangement,  contrasted  well  with  the 
showryr  vulgarity'  of  many  more  pretending  houses,  where  the 
furnishing  speaks  wealth,  and  nothing  but  wealth.  The  walls 
and  ceiling  were  white-washed,  green  boughs  filled  the  deep 
wide  fire-place,  the  open  cupboard,  with  its  shining  britannia  and 
pink-specked  china,  and  the  table  wdth  its  basket  of  apples, 
pears,  and  grapes — how  nice  it  all  was,  and  how  suggestive  of 
comfort !  But  after  all,  the  chief  charm  of  the  place  was  its 
living  occupants.  The  mother  was  not  yet  home,  having  the 
previous  night  gone  to  market  with  her  landlord — for  it  must 
be  remembered  that  Mrs.  Lytle  was  poor,  and  did  not  even 
own  the  cabin  which  w'as  indebted  for  all  its  attractiveness  to 
her  pains.  Butter  and  eggs,  and  fruits  and  berries,  beside 
various  things  manufactured  in  the  house,  the  provident  woman 
carried  weekly  to  town,  for  which  business  Mr.  Knight  kindly' 
gave  her  room  in  his  market-wagon  ;  and  while  she  generally 
returned  with  her  basket  as  full  as  she  carried  it  a  wav,  he 
returned  with  his  empty.  But  notwithstanding  these  expendi¬ 
tures  Mrs.  Lytle  owed  nothing,  and  though  her  purse  was  not 
so  heavy  as  her  neighbor’s,  neither  was  her  heart.  Her  children 
had  been  kept  at  school  for  the  most  part,  and  she  had  even 
managed  to  send  them  two  quarters  to  the  new'  academy,  and 
to  dress  them  in  a  style,  if  less  expensive,  as  neat  and  pretty 
as  anybody  in  the  neighborhood.  1  can  see  them  now'  as  1  saw 


132 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


them  oil  the  day  of  my  visit — Ady  in  a  bine  gingham  dress 
and  white  apron,  with  bare  neck  and  arms,  and  Kitty  in  a  pink 
dress  and  black  apron,  till  she  tied  over  it  a  checked  one  to 
assist  about  the  preparation  of  supper. 

“  And  that  is  the  reason  I  am  so  late  home  to-day,”  Mrs.  Lytle 
said,  beginning  at  the  close  of  her  story.  “  You  see  I  got  out 
of  the  wagon  just  the  other  side  of  the  school-house,  and  walked 
across  to  Hathaway’s,  to  see  how  little  Henry  was,  for  I  heard 
in  market  that  the  doctor  had  given  him  up.  Poor  child,  he 
seemed  so  sensible,  and  told  me  to  tell  his  mother  not  to  cry  !” 
and  wiping  her  tears,  she  added,  “Mrs.  Knight  was  there,  and 
you  know  her  way  :  so  they  all  felt  worse  than  they  would  have 
done.  As  soon  as  she  looked  at  Henry,  she  said  he  would  not 
live  till  morning,  and  then  calling  his  brother,  she  told  him  that 
Henry  would  never  work  or  play  with  him  again;  and  having 
told  them  two  or  three  times,  that  all  their  tears  would  not 
make  the  child  well,  she  went  home  to  tend  her  soap-kettle, 
leaving  directions  in  reference  to  being  sent  for  in  case  she  was 
needed.” 

It  was  certainly  characteristic  that  at  such  a  time  she  should 
bring  forward  her  hard,  dark  realities,  and  needlessly  torture 
breaking  hearts  by  allusions  to  the  awful  necessities  of  death. 
I  spoke  of  my  visit  at  her  house,  and  related  some  particulars 
which  tended  to  restore  the  cheerful  tone  of  the  conversation  ; 
in  fact  we  laughed  outright,  in  view  of  the  restraint  and  painful 
embarrassment  which  the  young  women  felt  in  consequence  of 
the  visit  of  Mr.  Francisco  in  open  daylight. 

u  I  hope,  mother,”  Kitty  said,  laughing  and  blushing,  “  you 
will  not  be  so  cross  when  I  have  a  beau,  for  poor  Hetty  will 
never  have  a  chance  to  get  married  I  am  sure.” 

“  I  hope  she  will  be  cross,”  said  the  sister,  “  if  you  have  such 
a  clodhopper  as  he.” 

“  Come,  come,  girls,”  answered  the  mother,  “  Mr.  Francisco 
is  a  good  worthy  young  man,  and  though  not  given  to  match¬ 
making,  I  feel  inclined  to  help  them  forward— can’t  we  facilitate 
their  happiness  in  some  way 

The  appeal  was  to  me,  and  1  entered  at  once  into  the  conspir¬ 
acy.  Mr.  Francisco  was  to  plow  a  field  for  Mrs.  Lytle  the  com- 


TWO  VISITS. 


133 


ing  week,  and  it  was  arranged  that  I  should  be  the  bearer  of  an 
invitation  to  the  girls  whose  opportunities  were  so  restricted, 
to  assist  in  cutting  apples  at  the  cottage  on  a  specified  afternoon. 
The  extent  of  this  service  cannot  be  estimated  by  those  who 
have  never  seen  or  felt  the  cold  straits  of  division  thrown  be¬ 
tween  themselves  and  some  dear  object,  by  the  strict  discipline 
of  parents  or  guardians,  forgetting  that  they  were  ever  lovers 
themselves.  But  perhaps  now  and  then  a  modern  Hero  and 
Leander  will  appreciate  it,  and  even  if  not,  my  conscience  does 
not  condemn  me,  for  I  verily  believe  they  might  never  have  told 
their  love  but  through  my  harmless  stratagem. 

But  I  am  lingering  too  long.  With  small  talk  of  one  kind 
and  another,  and  a  little  harmless  gossip,  as  I  have  confessed, 
the  time  passed  rapidly,  and  through  the  vine-shaded  window 
we  saw  the  heavy  mist  of  red  gold  hanging  over  the  withering 
woods,  and  black  forks  of  the  walnuts  darkening  or  the  blood- 
red  top  of  the  oaks  shining  through. 

The  girls  were  very  happy,  and  chattering  like  birds,  as  they 
prepared  the  supper,  and  great  credit  it  did  to  their  housewifery 
when  prepared.  The  broiled  chicken  bore  slight  resemblance  to 
Mi’s.  Knight’s  stewed  roosters,  and  the  clear,  fresh  jelly  as  little 
to  the  candied  and  crumby  fragments  which  the  good  woman 
called  preserves.  The  bread  could  not  have  been  whiter,  nor  the 
butter  more  golden  ;  the  cake  was  just  done  to  a  charm,  and  the 
table  linen  was  as  white  as  snow.  How  well  and  how  pleas¬ 
antly  1  remember  it  all,  though  so  long  ago!  the  pretty  pink 
china  sparkling  in  the  light  of  the  candles — the  two  brass  can¬ 
dlesticks  scoured,  so  that  they  looked  like  freshly  wrought  gold, 
and  our  pleasant  conversation  as  we  sipped  the  delicicrus  tea,  and 
my  promise  to  visit  them  often. 

According  to  the  kindly  custom  of  country  people,  Ady  and 
Kitty  went  “a  piece  of  the  way  home  with  me,”  telling  me  some 
little  secret  hopes  and  fears  they  had  not  ventured  upon  in  the 
day.  It  is  wonderful  what  an  influence  twilight  and  night  exert 
upon  us ;  we  draw  closer  to  those  we  like,  and  sometimes,  al¬ 
most  unawares,  give  our  hearts  to  their  keeping;  while  from 
those  we  hate  or  fear,  we  are  a  thousand  times  more  repelled 
than  in  the  noon.  Passion,  of  whatever  nature,  strengthens  in 


134 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


the  dark.  Many  a  sweet  confession  and  sweeter  kiss  that  have 
•/ 

knit  destinies  together,  owe  their  expression  to  the  friendly  stars. 
And  many  a  blow  has  been  struck  that  would  not  have  been 
given,  if  the  sunlight  had  shown  the  murderer  clearly  where  to 
do  his  work. 

\ 

As  we  stood  beneath  the  deeply  crimson  cone  of  a  stunted 
ash  that  grew  by  the  roadside,  making  our  adieus,  the  stage-coach, 
its  plethoric  sides  swinging  one  way  and  the  other,  I’umbled  past, 
hurrying  to  their  various  destinations  a  motley  crowd  of  dust- 
covered  passengers,  and  among  them  I  noticed  a  slight  and  fair¬ 
faced  youth,  looking  back  from  the  window.  “  The  school¬ 
master,”  I  said,  addressing  myself  to  Kitty,  who  blushed  to  find 
herself  detected  in  returning  his  earnest  gaze,  and  hastily  tied 
on  the  white  hood  she  had  previously  held  in  her  hand.  “  1  rather 
think,”  I  continued,  laughing,  “  he  is  all  your  fancy  painted  him  ; 
and  from  the  attention  with  which  he  regarded  us,  perhaps  we 
have,  some  of  us,  found  favor  in  his  e}7es ;  but  I  will  be  gene¬ 
rous,  having,  as  I  shall,  the  advantage  of  first  acquaintance,  and 
you  shall  know  him  as  soon  as  may  be.”  So,  jesting,  we  parted, 
as  the  first  star,  large  and  white,  came  out  above  the  tree  tops. 

The  doors  of  the  farm-houses  stood  open,  the  tables  were 
spread,  and  I  could  see  the  shirt  sleeves  busy,  as  hands  were 
moving  from  dish  to  dish,  and  the  patient  mother  trying  to  still 
the  fretful  baby,  while  she  poured  the  tea.  About  the  barn¬ 
yards  stood  the  cows  chewing  their  food,  and  waiting  to  be 
milked.  '  / 

V. 

On  my  arrival  home,  I  found  that  my  anticipation  had  been 
correct — the  young  schoolmaster  had  preceded  me,  and  sat  at 
the  parlor  window  deep  in  the  mysteries  and  merits  of — 

“  It  is  an  ancient  mariner 
And  lie  stoppetii  one  of  three  1” 

His  manner  and  salutation  were  civil  enough,  and  very 
graceful  withal,  and  I  was  struck  at  once  with  his  beauty, 
which  was  such  as  imagination  gives  the  poet ;  but  there  was 
an  indefinable  something  in  his  manner  which  made  me  feel 
myself  an  interruption  to  his  pleasure,  even  before  he  resumed 


TWO/  VISITS. 


135 


his  book,  which,  however,  he  presently  did,  after  a  little  com 
monplace  talk  about  the  beauty  of  the  sunset.  This,  to  confess 
the  truth,  was  vexatious,  for  most  young  ladies  are  pleased 
wTith  bu.t  that  demeanor  which  seems  to  say  they  are  the  only 
women  in  the  world.  The  relations  in  which  we  stood  involved 
no  obligation  on  the  part  of  either  of  us  farther  than  that  of 
common  courtesy  ;  and  though,  as  I  said,  the  young  man 
silently  resumed  his  book,  I  felt  it  my  privilege  as  it  was  my 
pleasure  to  remain  in  the  parlor,  as  his  own  apartment  awaited 
his  occupation  when  he  pleased.  Moreover,  he  interested  me, 
and  perhaps  I  was  not  without  hope,  that  when  the  twilight 
deepened  a  little  more,  he  would  begin  some  conversation.  I 
wish  that  with  any  word  painting  1  could  bring  his  picture 
before  you,  but  my  poor  skill  is  insufficient,  and  I  cannot  hope 
to  give  the  faintest  idea  of  that  dreamy  and  spiritual  expression 
which  chiefly  made  him  wffiat  he  w'as,  the  most  beautiful  person 
I  had  ever  seen. 

.  He  was  a  little  above  the  medium  height,  straight  as  an 
arrow,  and  of  faultless  proportions.  His  hair  wras  of  a  perfect 
and  glossy,  black,  and  hanging  in  wavy  half  curls  down  his 
neck  and  temples,  gave  to  his  face  a  look  almost  girlish.  His 
eyes  were  very  large  and  dark,  but  soft  and  melancholy,  and 
along  the  delicate  whiteness  of  his  cheek  the  color  ran  blushing 
whenever  he  spoke.  His  hands  too  evinced  his  gentle  origin. 
Closer  and  closer  to  the  page  he  bent  his  head,  as  ebbed  away 
the  crimson  tide  in  which,  an  hour  ago,  the  sun  had  drifted  out 
of  view,  and  not  till  star  after  star  came  sharpening  its  edges 
of  jagged  gold  in  the  blue,  did  he  close  the  volume. 

He  did  not  speak,  however,  when  this  was  done,  but  locking 
his  hands  together  like  a  child,  watched  the  ashy  and  sombre 
clouds  which  in  the  south  were  mingling  into  one,  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then,  absorbed,  as  it  seemed,  with  his  own 
thoughts,  walked  slowly  in  the  direction  of  the  wood,  that  held 
in  its  rough  arms  the  waning  splendor  that  rained  off*  with 
every  sough  of  wind. 

Every  moment  the  atmosphere  grew  more  sluggish  and 
oppressive,  and  the  broad  dim  leaves  of  the  sycamore,  that 
shadowred  the  well,  drifted  slowly  slantwise  to  the  ground. 


136 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


The  summer  had  shaken  from  her  hot  ]ap  the  fierce  thunder¬ 
bolts,  and  there  was  no  broken  rumble  nor  quick  sharp  rattle 
to  lend  terrible  grandeur  to  the  autumn’s  dismal  and  pitiless 
storms,  for  one  of  which  the  night  was  preparing. 

The  time  was  very  still,  and  as  I  sat  on  the  low  mossy  door¬ 
step,  I  could  hear  the  voices  of  neighbors  half  a  mile  away,  as 
they  hurried  the  milking,  and  the  rattle  of  the  dry  boards 
where  the  apple-sheds  were  being  covered.  Distinctly  down 
the  clayey  hill,  a  mile  to  the  south,  I  heard  the  clatter  of  fast¬ 
falling  hoof-strokes,  then  it  was  lost  in  the  damp  hollow  and  up 
the  long  dusty  slope,  but  I  pleased  myself  with  guessing  at 
what  points  the  horseman  had  arrived  at  such  and  such  times, 
till  almost  at  the  expected  moment  he  appeared  on  the  neigh¬ 
boring  hill,  darkening  through  the  lessening  light.  Holding 
the  ragged  rim  of  his  chip-hat  with  one  hand,  he  reined  in  his 
fiery  sorrel  at  the  gate  of  our  house,  and  beckoned  me  to 
approach.  Before  1  reached  him,  or  even  recognized  him,  for 
he  was  the  young  man  I  had  met  at  Mrs.  Knight’s,  I  divined 
from  the  straight  rod  balancing  on  the  arched  neck  of  his  im¬ 
patient  horse,  the  melancholy  nature  of  his  errand  :  little  Henry 
Hathaway  was  dead.  Scarce  any  preparation  was  requisite, 
and,  wrapt  in  my  shawl  and  hood,  I  was  soon  on  the  way. 

Mr.  Hathaway’s  house  was  nearly  a  mile  south  of  ours, 
and  half  that  distance  off’  the  main  road,  to  the  west,  so  that  to 
reach  it  most  conveniently  I  struck  across  the  fields.  From 
the  duty  before  me  I  shrank  somewhat,  not  from  any  unwilling¬ 
ness  to  lend  my  aid,  but  I  was  young,  unused  to  death,  and 
half  afraid  ;  and  when  I  reached  the  woods  through  which  my 
way  led,  the  rustling  leaves  beneath  my  feet  seemed  to  give 
out  the  mournfulest  sound  I  had  ever  heard.  A  few  steps 
aside  from  my  path,  sitting  on  a  mossy  log,  beneath  an  arbor 
of  wild  grapes,  I  beheld  some  vision  of  mortality,  and  suddenly 
stopping,  gazed  with  intensity  of  fear.  That  any  sane  person 
should  be  in  such  place  at  such  time,  was  not  very  probable, 
for  at  that  period  our  neighborhood  was  free  from  those  troubled 
wanderers  who  people  the  dreariest  solitudes  with  the  white- 
browed  children  of  the  imagination,  and  soften  the  dull  and 
dead  realities  with  atmospheres  of- song.  I  think,  however,  it 


TWO  VISITS. 


137 


was  by  no  process  of  reasoning  that  I  likened  the  dimly-out¬ 
lined  shape  before  me  with  that  son  of  the  morning,  of  whom 
heaven  disburthened  itself  so  Ions;  ago.  A  shower  of  wet 
leaves  rained  down  on  me,  for  the  fine  drops  were  already 
drizzling  and  pattering  on  the  interlocked  branches  overhead, 
as  I  stood,  more  from  inability  to  fly,  than  from  courage,  before 
the  object  which  my  fancy  alone  made  terrible — 

“  Stand  there,  vision  of  a  lady — 

Stand  there  silent,  stand  there  steady,7’ 

spoke  a  voice,  so  musical  that  fear  vanished,  though  it  was  not 
till  another  moment  that  I  recognized  the  schoolmaster.  When 
I  did  so,  flushing-in  the  wake  of  fear  came  anger,  and  I  replied, 
“  If  you  intend  to  enact  fantastic  tricks  of  this  sort,  I  pray  you 
will  choose  an  auditor  next  time  who  can  fitly  repay  you — for 
myself,  I  must  remain  your  debtor.”  Having  spoken  thus,  I 
swept  along  the  rustling  leaves,  with  an  air  that  might  have 
done  credit  to  an  injured  princess,  as  I  fancied.  Thoughtless 
and  ungentle  as  my  manner  was,  it  was  productive  of  a  ma¬ 
turity  of  acquaintance,  which  greater  civility  would  probably 
not  have  induced  ;  for  immediately  the  young  man  joined  me, 
and  so  sweetly  apologized  that  I  could  not  but  forgive  him. 
Of  course  he  did  not  at  first  recognize  me  more  than  I  him, 
and  so  for  a  time  remained  silent  under  my  scrutiny. 

Though  no  longer  afraid  of  shadows,  having  found  one  ap¬ 
parition  so  harmless,  1  was  not  sorry  to  have  the  lonesome  way 
enlivened  by  the  cheerful  influence  of  my  new  friend’s  company. 
I  think,  however,  neither  of  us  felt  any  real  pleasure  in  the 
other’s  society,  and  I  may  say,  neither  then  nor  ever  after. 
Upon  this  encounter,  we  had  each  felt  bound  to  manifest  cordial 
feeling,  but  kept  all  the  while  a  belligerent  reserve  force  to  fall 
back  on  at  any  moment. 

There  was  about  Mr.  Spencer — for  that  was  his  name — a 
distant  and  measured  formality,  which  I  mistook  for  pride  and 
self-sufficiency  ;  the  sentences  came  from  his  thin  lips  with  cold 
regularity,  as  though  chiseled  in  marble ;  I  felt  then  and 
always  the  disagreeable  sensation  of  an  utter  impossibility  of 
saying  or  doing  anything  which  could  in  the  least  interest  him. 


138 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


He  was  young,  as  I  said,  and  perhaps  he  seemed  more  youthful 
than  he  was.  Had  we  both  been  some  years  older,  1  might 
have  recognized,  under  the  blind  and  statue-like  beauty  that 
could  “  view  the  ripened  rose,  nor  seek  to  wear  it,”  the  signs 
of  a  passion  that  had  burned  itself  to  ashes. 

In  interchanges  of  words,  and  not  of  thoughts,  we  climbed 
the  fences,  walked  the  logs  over  the  runs,  crossed  the  stubble 
land,  and  struck  into  the  lane  where  the  yellow  dust  was  dim¬ 
pling  more  and  more  with  the  steady  and  increasing  rain.  As 
we  drew  near  the  house  we  became  silent,  for  all  about  it 
seemed  an  atmosphere  of  death.  Our  footsteps,  on  the  moist 
earth,  did  not  break  the  hush  ;  even  the  watch-dog  seemed  con¬ 
sciously  still,  and,  having  turned  his  red  eyes  on  us  as  we 
passed,  pressed  his  huge  freckled  nose  close  to  the  ground 
again,  whining  low  and  piteously.  A  few  sticks  were  burning 
on  the  hearth — for  the  rain  had  chilled  the  air — the  flames 
flickering  up,  wan  and  bluish  for  a  moment,  and  then  dropping 
down  into  a  quivering  and  uncertain  blaze  ;  there  was  no  crack¬ 
ling  and  sparkling,  no  cheerfulness  iq  it ;  and  seated  before  it 
was  the  mother,  rocking  to  and  fro,  her  tears  falling  silently 
among  the  brown  curls  of  the  mateless  little  boy  who  rested 
his  head  on  her  knees. 

Two  women,  in  very  plain  caps,  and  with  sleeves  turned 
back  from  their  wrists,  were  busying  themselves  about  the 
house,  and  in  the  intervals  of  work  officiously  comforting  the 
mourner.  I  could  only  take  her  hand  in  mine  ;  I  had  no  words 
to  illumine  the  steep  black  sides  of  the  grave  ;  in  all  the  world 
there  was  nothing  that  could  fill  her  empty  arms  ;  why  should 
I  essay  it  ?  One  of  the  women  directed  us  in  a  whisper  to  the 
adjoining  room.  Little  Henry  was  already  dressed  for  the 
coffin,  and,  kneeling  beside  the  hard  bed  on  which  he  lay,  wTas 
Kitty  Lytle,  combing  and  curling  his  hair,  that  he  might  appear 
to  his  mother  as  life-like  as  possible.  Her  own  rippling 
lengths  of  golden  yellow  fell  forward,  half  veiling  her  face, 
which,  in  its  expression  of  earnest  tenderness,  made  her  per¬ 
fectly  beautiful.  The  young  man  stepped  hurriedly  towrard  the 
dead,  but  his  eyes  rested  on  the  girl. 

On  the  mantle  stood  half  a  dozen  empty  phials,  with  small 


TWO  VISITS. 


139 


packages,  cups,  and  teaspoons,  and  in  one  corner  of  the  room 
the  death-bed — the  impression  of  his  face  still  fresh  in  the 
pillow.  A  napkin  -was  pinned  oyer  the  small  looking-glass, 
and  the  table  was  draped  in  white. 

I  wondered  to  see  Kitty  do  her  sad  work  so  calmly,  for  she 
was  younger  than  I,  who  trembled  even  to  touch  the  shroud, 
but  in  thought  and  feeling,  as  I  afterward  learned,  she  had  far 
outgrown  her  years,  and  never  lingered  from  the  most  painful 
duty.  While  Ady  timidly  remained  with  her  mother,  she  had 
come  through  the  night  and  the  storm,  and  in  her  gentle  minis¬ 
tries  of  love  seemed  first  to  have  entered  into  her  proper 
sphere. 

The  sash  rattled  in  the  window  as  the  winds  went  and 
came,  and  across  the  panes  trailed  darkly  the  leafless  vines  of 
the  wild  rose,  but  little  Henry  slept  very  quietly  all  the  while. 

Silent  for  the  most  part,  and  conversing  in  low  tones,  when 
speaking  at  all,  we  sat — young  watchers  with  the  dead.  Hetty 
Knight,  who  had  also  preceded  me,  kept  in  the  dimmest  corner, 
too  bashful  to  speak  in  the  presence  of  a  stranger,  and  Mr. 
Spencer  persisted  in  remaining,  though  I  had  twice  informed 
him  that  it  was  not  at  all  needful,  inasmuch  as  Mr.  Francisco 
was  expected  to  sit  with  us.  So,  stormy  and  mournful,  the 
night  wore  on. 

“  Miss  Hathaway,”  spoke  a  coarse  voice — a  rough  discord  to 
the  time — “he  says  the  coffin  will  be  here  by  sunrise,”  and, 
dripping  and  streaming  from  the  rain,  Mr.  Francisco  entered 
the  apartment  consecrated  to  silence  by  that  awful  shadow  that 
must  ever  make  heavy  the  heart,  with  the  shuffling  step  and 
unquiet  manner  with  which  he  would  have  gone  into  his  father’s 
bam.  Having  thrown  himself  in  a  seat,  in  a  graceless  fashion 
which  'left  his  legs  drifting  off  to  one  side,  as  though  hinged 
at  the  knees  very  loosely,  he  asked,  in  a  jocular  tone,  if  we 
were  all  skeert.  There  was  an  exchange  of  smiles  and  glances 
between  Kitty  and  the  schoolmaster,  as  Hetty  replied,  that  for 
one,  she  was  never  scared  before  she  was  hurt.  Destitute  of 
those  common  instincts  of  refinement,  which  are  better  and 
more  correct  than  all  teachings,  these  two  young  persons  fra¬ 
ternized  that  night  in  a  way  that  was  visibly  annoying  to  the 


140 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


stranger.  Mr.  Francisco  probably  feared  that  a  subdued  man¬ 
ner  would  be  attributed  to  cowardice,  and,  therefore,  in  mis¬ 
taken  pride  of  manhood,  was  unusually  brusque.  After  some 
pretending  conversation  between  himself  and  Hetty — for  they 
evidently  talked  of  what  they  were  not  thinking — they  gradually 
relapsed  into  silence.  Leaning  her  head  on  the  table  Kitty  had 
fallen  asleep,  and,  under  pretence  of  chilliness,  the  schoolmaster 
withdrew  to  the  adjoining  room,  having  first  carefully  wrapt 
my  shawl  about  the  pretty  plump  shoulders  of  the  sleeping 
girl  :  I  don’t  know  why  he  should  never  have  thought  that  I 
might  need  it,  but  he  did  not. 

I  as  heartily  wished  myself  out  of  the  way  of  the  young 
lovers  as  they  could  wish  me,  and  more  especially  when,  taking 
an  ear  of  corn  from  his  pocket,  the  young  man  began  shelling 
off  the  grains  and  throwing  them,  two  or  three  at  a  time,  in  the 
face  of  Hetty,  whose  laughing  reproofs  wrere  so  gentle  they  did 
not  correct  the  offence,  and  probably  were  not  designed  to 
do  so.  I  could  not  make  myself  into  thin  air,  but  I  did  the 
best  for  them  which  the  circumstances  permitted.  Taking  up 
a  torn  newspaper,  the  only  readable  thing  I  could  find,  I  turned 
my  face  away,  and  read  and  re-read  a  pathetic  article  of  that 
sort  which  seems  to  have  been  invented  for  the  first  pages  of 
the  country  journals.  I  was  not  so  absorbed,  however,  as  not 
to  hear  the  facetious  youth  address  his  lady  love  with,  “  Did 
you  ever  see  a  cob  that  was  half  red  V' 

“No,”  was  the  reply;  and  thereupon,  of  course,  he  drew  his 
chair  near  Hetty’s,  as  if  to  exhibit  the  phenomenon,  but  to  her 
surprise  he  said,  “  ’T  other  half  is  red,  too  !” 

“  Oh,  if  you  ain’t  the  greatest  torment !”  said  Hetty  ;  and 
the  jostling  of  the  chairs  told  of  their  closer  proximity. 

“  ’T  is  half  red,  any  how,”  said  the  beau  ;  “  red  as  your  cheek, 
and  1  could  make  that  redder  an  what  it  is  !” 

Whether  the  boasted  ability  was  vindicated  by  experiment? 
I  do  not  know  ;  a  rustling  of  capes  and  collars,  and  a  sort  of 
playful  warfare,  were  my  only  means  of  inference.  Presently 
the  whispers  became  inaudible,  and  having  read  in  the  paper  how 
a  queen’s  sumptuous  breakfast  was  removed  untasted  on  the 
morning  after  her  divorce,  how  the  plumes  failed  to  hide  the 


TWO  VISITS. 


141 


pallor  of  her  discrowned  brow,  sadder  perhaps  for  the  lost  love- 
light  than  the  vanishing  glory — with  other  interesting  parti¬ 
culars  of  the  mournful  story  —  I  nestled  beside  Kitty  and 
feigned  the  sleep  which  had  so  softly  wooed  her,  from  pain  and 
all  the  world  of  love  that  fancy  may  have  painted,  to  the 
golden  sphere  of  dreams  ;  and  though  this  pretence  of  sleep 
did  not  much  refresh  me,  it  was  all  the  same  to  the  lovers,  and 
but  for  my  accommodating  artifice  they  might  never  have  made 
our  clergyman  the  promises  they  did  a  year  thereafter. 

Toward  morning,  listening  to  the  winds  as  they  cried  about 
the  lonesome  homestead,  and  the  vines,  creaking  against  the 
window  pane,  where  the  rain  pattered  and  plashed,  I  passed 
over  the  borders  of  consciousness,  and  woke,  not  till  the  lamp 
was  struggling  with  the  day,  that  was  breaking  whitely  through 
the  crimson — the  clouds  lifting  and  drifting  away,  and  the  rain 
done. 

In  the  dimmest  corner  the  two  most  wakeful  watchers  still 
kept  their  places,  and  by  the  mingling  light  the  schoolmaster 
was  reading  to  Kitty,  in  a  softly,  eloquent  tone,  that  most 
beautiful  creation,  beginning — 

“  All  thoughts,  all  feelings,  all  delights, 

Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 

All  but  ministers  of  love, 

And  feed  his  sacred  flame.” 

Was  the  voice  with  which  he  told  another’s  love  interpreting 
his  own  1  or  why  ran  the  blushes  so  often  along  his  cheek,  and 
why  beneath  his  dark  eyes  burned  those  of  the  listener  ? 

From  the  cherry  tree  came  the  cock,  not  flapping  his  wings 
and  crowing  proudly,  but  with  the  water  dripping  from  his  tail, 
drenched  into  one  drooping  feather ;  in  the  milk-yard  were  dry 
and  dusty  spots,  where  the  cattle  had  slept ;  the  doves  came 
down  in  flocks,  pecking,  now  themselves  and  now  their  scanty 
breakfasts  ;  and  warm  and  yellow  across  the  hills  came  the  sun¬ 
shine,  to  comfort  the  desolate  earth  for  her  lost  leaves  and 
flowers.  But  no  one  bent  over  the  white  bed  of  little  Henry, 
saying,  “Wake,  it  is  day  and  silently  the  mother  laid  her 
hand  on  his  forehead,  in  placid  repose  under  its  golden  crown 
of  curls  ;  silently  her  quivering  lips  pressed  his — and  that  was  all. 


142 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


VI. 

But  I  am  lingering  too  long.  Often  while  the  soft  hazy 
autumn  was  stretching  away  to  the  dreary  and  chill  winter,  the 
schoolmaster’s  walk  was  along  the  sheltering  hollow  where, 
from  the  westward,  as  twilight  fell,  brightened  the  lights  of 
Mrs.  Lytle’s  cabin.  Often,  too,  when  the  cheery  blaze  reddened 
across  the  drifted  snow  without,  he  smiled  among  the  happy 
group  at  the  hearth-stone.  And  Kitty — “  already  had  his  wild 
eyes  unlocked  her  heart’s  springs.”  But,  though  drawn  toward 
her,  I  could  never  believe  his  heart  was  much  touched  ;  rather  to 
escape  from  some  haunting  phantom  than  to  embrace  a  new  hope, 
it  seemed  to  me  he  sought  her.  Alas  for  her,  she  could  not  see, 
for  her  own  blind  love,  that  it  was  no  rapturous  glow  that  burned 
in  his  cheek  ;  she  could  not  hear,  for  her  own  trembling  tones,  that 
there  was  no  fervor  in  his.  If  such  things  even  were,  I  saw  them 
not.  We  can  scarcely  imagine  a  young  and  timid  girl,  giving  from 
its  close  folding,  the  treasure  of  her  affection  into  the  hands  of 
indifference — but  I  seek  not  to  uncover  from  the  dust  the  heart 
that  was  once  bright  with  the  insanity  of  a  dream.  And  for 
the  living,  whether  guilty  or  guiltless,  I  judge  him  not.  Between 
ourselves,  the  acquaintance  never  ripened  into  any  sort  of  confi¬ 
dence.  Sometimes,  in  the  midst  of  our  most  earnest  conversa¬ 
tions,  he  would  break  off  abruptly  and  seek  solitude  in  his  cham¬ 
ber  or  with  the  stars  ;  at  other  times  he  would  answer  so  vaguely 
that  I  knew  he  received  no  meaning  from  my  words.  lie  often 
amused  his  leisure  with  making  sketches  in  pencil — sometimes 
of  scenery  about  the  neighborhood,  sometimes  of  the  faces  of  his 
pupils ;  and  more  than  one  drawing,  of  Mrs.  Lytle’s  cottage 
graced  his  portfolio  ;  but  there  was  one  picture  which  he  seemed 
to  prize  more  than  all  others,  returning  fo  it  again  and  again, 
andworking  at  it  with  the  most  patient  and  elaborate  care.  W hen 
I  rallied  him  about  it,  he  said  I  should  see  it  when  completed, 
but  that  time  never  came;  and  when  I  guessed,  one  day,  it  was 
the  portrait  of  Kitty,  he  blushed,  but  in  the  end  shook  his  head 
sadly,  and  left  me  alone.  The  favorite  picture  was  never  left  on 
the  table  with  the  others. 

When  that  rough  hunter  of  the  young  hardy  flowers,  March, 


TWO  VISITS. 


148 


filled  the  budding  woods  with  his  wild  laughter,  I  went  from 
home  with  an  invalid  relation,  in  the  hope  that  restoration,  in 
some  other  clime,  would  “  hang  its  medicine  upon  her  lips.” 
Previously  to  leaving  1  visited  Mrs.  Lytle’s  cabin.  How  busy 
and  cheerful  they  all  were — the  girls  pruning  the  lilacs  and  roses, 
and  planning  the  new  flower-bed,  and  the  mother  arranging  a  bed 
of  oat-straw  for  the  tall,  awkwardly  walking  calf,  white,  and  with 
a  pinkish  nose  and  red  specks  along  its  sides,  which  the  dove- 
colored  heifer,  “  Beauty,”  had  just  brought  home. 

We  talked  gayly  at  first,  partly  to  conceal  our  sadness;  and 
I  remember  telling  Kitty  it  made  no  difference  about  her  flow¬ 
ers — she  could  not  be  there  to  see  them  bloom  ;  little  thinking 
how  sadly  my  prophecy  would  be  fulfilled.  She  and  I  were  be¬ 
come  fast  friends,  and  when  I  had  said  good-bye,  to  the  mother 
and  sister,  she  tied  on  her  bonnet,  as  her  custom  was,  to  walk 
part  of  the  way  home  with  me.  We  chose  an  indirect  path 
through  the  woods,  to  protract  the  sweet  sorrow  of  parting,  and 
had  nearly  reached  the  spot  where  the  last  sad  word  must  be 
said,  when,  sitting  where  the  shadows  of  the  naked  boughs  and 
the  sunshine  flecked  the  greenly  sprouting  grass,  we  saw  the 
schoolmaster.  He  was  leaning  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  and 
on  his  knee  rested  his  portfolio.  “  Let  us  steal  a  march  on  him,” 
I  said,  “  and  get  a  glimpse  of  the  cherished  picture  and  repress¬ 
ing  our  laughter,  and  on  tip-toe,  we  drew  near,  and  peeping  over 
his  shoulder  the  secret  was  revealed.  Pained  and  startled,  T  re¬ 
treated  as  lightly  as  I  had  approached,  while,  pale  and  trembling, 
Kitty  remained  transfixed.  The  schoolmaster  was  fast  asleep, 
and  the  pleasant  surprise  we  meant  for  him  terminated  in  our 
own  discomfiture.  Without  the  least  intention  of  doing  so,  we 
had  broken  over  a  charmed  circle  sacred  to  private  sorrow — 
the  drawing  was  of  a  mountain  side,  with  pines  and  hemlocks 
stretching  bearded  boughs  above  a  grave,  beside  which  the  artist 
himself  was  kneeling,  and  beneath  which  was  written — 

“  Oh !  lost  and  buried  love  of  mine, 

Though  doomed  a  little  while  to  part, 

Thy  grave,  God  knoweth,  ia  the  shrine 
Of  all  the  worship  of  my  heart.” 

By  what  strange  impulse  prompted,  or  by  what  authority 


144 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


warranted,  I  know  not,  but  Kitty  remained  till  her  dizzied  vision 
had  deciphered  all. 

I  pushed  back  the  curls  that  had  fallen  over  her  face,  kissed 
her  forehead,  white  and  damp  now,  and  left  her  without  speak¬ 
ing  a  word  ;  love’s  goldenest  dream  was  breaking  and  fading 
in  her  heart ;  though  she  smiled,  it  was  a  smile  that  brought 
tears  to  my  eyes.  So  we  parted. 

The  fields  were  checked  with  furrows,  and  the  corn  planted ; 
the  winds  chased  the  waves  over  the  grain  fields  ;  the  sheep  were 
plunged  in  the  full-flowing  streams  of  the  early  summer,  and, 
shorn  thin  of  their  fleeces,  bleated  along  the  hills ;  nature  went 
on  with  her  work,  and  was  bringing  home  the  autumn  to  the 
music  of  threshing  flails  and  the  dancing  of  bright  leaves  along 
the  woodland,  when  from  my  searching  for  the  lost  waters  of 
health,  I  came  back  to  the  shelter  of  the  homestead. 

For  my  summer  absence,  I  regarded  every  thing  with  fresh 
interest ;  the  shutters  of  the  schoolhouse  were  closed,  and  the 
rusty  padlock  hung  at  the  door  ;  just  beyond  was  the  graveyard, 
and  in  the  corner  beneath  the  willow  where  the  elders  had  long 
grown  thick,  offering  vainly  their  snowy  blossoms  and  shining 
berries  to  the  schoolboys,  a  little  space  was  cleared  away,  and 
the  dark  pit  was  waiting  for  the  victim.  Two  men  leaned  over 
the  stone  wall,  looking  weary  and  impatient  toward  the  north; 
they  were  evidently  expecting  a  funeral,  while  their  spades,  stick¬ 
ing  upright  in  the  fresh-heaped  earth,  waited  to  do  their  work. 

I  would  have  asked  who  was  dead,  but  just  then  between  me 
and  the  grave  swept  a  gay  train  of  twenty  or  thirty  equestrians, 
with  low,  clumsy  old  horses,  and  tall,  gaunt  colts  already  bear¬ 
ing  marks  of  collars  and  traces,  with  stubborn  ponies  and  slim- 
limbed  pacers — all  prancing  and  trotting  and  galloping  together. 

A  confused  glimpse  of  the  blue  and  crimson  and  green  velvet 
of  the  side-saddles  met  my  eyes,  with  smiling  faces  beneath  the 
broad-rimmed  flats,  flapping  up  and  down,  and  with  veils 
streaming  back,  and  white  dresses  gathered  up  and  falling  over 
the  left  arm,  showing  liberally  the  pretty  petticoats  of  dimities, 
and  scollops  and  ruffles.  And  further,  I  had  some  notion  of  a 
dozen  or  more  trimly  dressed  youths,  with  bronzed  faces  newly 


TWO  VISITS. 


145 


shaved,  and  shining  with  their  late  ablutions — all  this  1  faintly 
apprehended,  before  the  cavalcade  disappeared,  in  a  cloud  of 
dust. 

Darkening  out  of  it  in  the  distance  came  a  slow-moving  train. 
The  two  impatient  men  would  not  be  required  to  wait  much 
longer.  The  road  was  narrow,  and  on  a  hill  beneath  an  old  oak, 
wre  waited  for  the  procession  to  pass.  It  drew  nearer  and  nearer, 
and  as  the  foremost  wagon  stopped  in  the  hollow,  I  saw  plainly 
the  long  slender  coffin,  from  which  had  slipped  partly  aside  the 
folding-sheet.  Next  came  the  clergyman’s  carriage,  and  beside 
the  venerable  man,  his  good  wrife,  her  loving  eyes  shrouded  from 
view  ;  and  the  carriage  held,  also,  two  more  comfortless  mourn¬ 
ers  than  they ;  and  as  they  passed,  I  trembled  to  recognize  be¬ 
neath.  their  black  veils  Ady  Lytle  and  her  mother — Kitty  was 
gone  before. 

They  were  not  many  who  followed  her ;  she  was  but  a  young 
girl,  and  the  daughter  of  a  poor  widow  ;  a  few  of  the  near  neigh¬ 
bors  were  all.  The  mother,  pale  and  patient,  held  her  baby 
close,  as  the  wagon  jolted  and  rattled  by,  and  the  young  girl 
riding  on  horseback,  looked  thoughtfully  on  the  sturdy  brother 
at  her  side.  Behind  the  rest  walked  a  dozen  little  boys,  now 
and  then  pausing  to  make  curious  prints  in  the  dust  with  their 
bare  feet,  by  way  of  diverting  their  thoughts.  So  from  the  hill 
we  saw  cross  each  other,  the  bridal  train  of  Hetty  Knight  and 
the  funeral  of  Kitty  Lytle. 


7 


146 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


UNCLE  WILLIAM’S. 

I. 

No  matter  how  ingeniously  probabilities  may  be  woven, 
how  cunning  are  plots,  or  effective  situations,  the  fictitious 
narrative  has  rarely  the  attractive  interest  of  a  simple  statement 
of  facts ;  and  every  one  seems  to  have  that  quick  instinct  which 
detects  the  most  elaborate  imitations  of  truth,  so  that  all  the 
skill  of  the  novelist  fails  to  win  a  single  tribute  not  due  merely 
to  his  art.  I  cannot  tell  what  I  might  be  tem]3ted  to  essay  if 
I  possessed  more  imagination  or  fancy,  but  with  a  brain  so 
unfruitful  of  invention,  and  a  heart  bound  as  with  spells  to  the 
past,  I  should  find  myself,  even  if  attempting  a  flight  in  the 
realms  of  fancy,  but  recalling  some  half  forgotten  experience, 
and  making  Puck  or  Titania  discourse  after  the  manner  of  our 
landlord  at  the  Clovernook  Hotel,  or  the  young  women  whose 
histories  I  began  to  mark  when  we  were  girls  together  in  the 
district  school. 

It  is,  perhaps,  seven  or  eight  years  ago — ah  me,  how  soon 
we  grow  old  enough  to  look  back  to  seven,  and  eight,  and  ten 
years,  as  to  yesterday  ! — since  I  went  to  spend  the  winter  with 
my  cousins,  Delia  and  Jane  Peters.  They  lived  in  the  neigh¬ 
borhood  of  Elm  Ridge.  It  is  an  obscure  and  was  to  me  a 
lonesome  place,  though  they  said  they  had  society  enough  all 
around  them  ;  and  indeed  the  village  meeting-house  and  tavern- 
sign  were  within  view,  and  the  window  lights  of  Abner  Wid- 
dleton,  the  nearest  neighbor,  shone  across  the  door-yard. 

The  happiest  occasions,  if  they  bring  change  with  them,  are 
sad  ;  and  I  remember  that  I  could  not  sleep  well  the  night 
previous  to  my  setting  out,  though  I  had  been  for  weeks  talking 


UNCLE  WILLIAM’S. 


U1 


of  the  pleasure  I  should  have  in  visiting  uncle  William’s  famil y. 
The  last  collar  was  ruffled,  the  last  strings  and  hooks  and  eyes 
adjusted,  my  trunk  packed,  and  my  bonnet,  with  the  green  veil 
pinned  fast,  laid  on  the  bed,  and  but  a  night  lay  between  me 
and  my  little  journey.  Then  it  was,  when  all  was  ready,  that 
a  sorrowful,  half-regretful  feeling  came  over  me.  I  stood  at 
the  window  and  looked  on  the  way  the  stage-coach  would  come 
in  the  morning  ;  watched  the  cows  as  they  crouched  with  petty 
rifts  of  snow  along  their  backs,  and  their  faces  from  the  wind ; 
and  the  chickens,  as  they  flew  into  the  cherry-tree,  cackling 
their  discomfort  as  they  settled  themselves  on  the  smoothly 
worn  boughs ;  for  it  was  a  blustery  night,  and  these  common¬ 
places  seemed  to  have  in  them  a  solemn  import,  all  because  I 
was  to  be  a  dozen  miles  away  for  a  few  weeks  ! 

A  dozen  times  I  said  to  little  Dillie,  with  whom  J  slept, 
“  Are  you  awake  ?”  before  I  could  sleep.  But  I  was  wearied 
out  at  last,  and  but  imperfectly  heard  the  speckled  cock  telling 
his  mates  of  midnight  when  a  blessed  wave  of  oblivion  came 
between  me  and  Elm  Ridge,  and  I  woke  not  till  a  hand  rested 
lightly  on  my  shoulder,  and  a  familiar  voice  said,  “I  guess  it’s 
time.”  I  needed  no  second  call,  but  was  dressed  and  waiting 
in  a  few  minutes.  It  did  not  require  much  time  for  breakfast, 
I  think.  There  seemed  nothing  for  us  to  say  as  we  watched 
the  coming  of  the  coach,  while  my  baggage  was  carried  toward 
the  gate  that  I  might  occasion  no  detention.  A  few  repetitions 
of  what  had  been  already  said,  a  few  exchanges  of  smiles  that 
faded  into  sighs,  and  the  well-known  rumble  of  the  approach¬ 
ing  vehicle  arrested  our  make-believe  conversation. 

My  little  baggage  was  hoisted  to  the  top.  I  was  afraid  I 
should  never  see  it  again.  A  portly  gentleman,  having  a 
round  red  face  and  pale  blue  eyes,  reached  out  one  hand — it 
was  freckled  and  fat,  I  remember — to  assist  me  in  ;  “  All 
ready'?”  cried  the  driver,  and  we  were  off.  I  looked  back  pre¬ 
sently,  and  saw  them  all  standing  just  as  I  had  left  them,  ex¬ 
cept  little  Dillief  who  had  climbed  on  the  fence,  and  was  gaz¬ 
ing  after  us  very  earnestly.  The  coach  jolted  and  rolled  from 
side  to  side,  for  the  road  was  rough  and  frozen  ;  and  the  pleth¬ 
oric  individual,  who  wore  a  tightly  buttoned  brown  overcoat, 


148 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


leaned  his  double  chin  on  his  round  hands,  which  were  crossed 
over  the  gold  head  of  a  crooked  but  highly  polished  walking- 
stick,  and  conversed  with  the  gentleman  opposite,  in  an  easy 
and  complacent  way  that  indicated  a  state  of  satisfaction  with 
the  world  and  with  himself.  His  companion  was  exceedingly 
diminutive,  having  the  delicate  hands  and  feet  of  a  child ;  a 
mouth  in  which  a  shilling  might  scarcely  be  slipped ;  a  little 
long  head,  bald  about  the  crown,  and  with  thin  brown  hair 
hanging  far  over  his  coat-collar,  which  was  glazed  with  such 
contact  to  the  depth  of  half  an  inch,  as  it  seemed.  I  soon 
learned  their  respective  homes  and  avocations :  the  fat  man 
proved  to  be  a  pork  merchant,  homeward  bound  from  a  profit¬ 
able  sale  ;  and  his  little  fellow  traveller  a  tailor  and  small 
merchant  of  one  of  the  western  states.  “  There,”  said  he, 
smiling,  and  pointing  to  a  huge  wagon  of  several  tons  burden, 
drawn  by  six  stout  horses,  wearing  bells  on  their  collars, 
“there  goes  a  little  buggy  that ’s  got  a  budget  or  two  of  mine 
aboard.” 

The  fat  man  smiled,  and  every  one  else  smiled,  as  they  saw 
the  six  horses  straining  with  all  their  ability,  slowly  to  drag 
along  the  ponderous  load  ;  for  the  great  wagon-body  was  heaped 
and  overheaped  with  bags,  bales,  and  baskets,  crocks,  cradles, 
and  calicoes,  in  fact  with  all  sorts  of  family  and  household  uten¬ 
sils,  from  a  plow  to  a  teapot,  and  with  wearing  apparel  from 
buckram  and  ducks  to  cambrics  and  laces. 

“  Two  or  three  times  a  year  I  buy  up  such  a  little  bunch  as 
that,”  he  said  ;  and  he  smiled  again,  and  so  did  every  body  else. 

“  That  bay  cretur  on  the  off  side,”  he  resumed,  letting  down 
the  wdndow  and  looking  back,  “  is  fallen  lame,  I  believe  my 
heart.  Polly  will  be  as  mad  as  a  hornet  about  it ;  it ’s  her  riding 
nag,  d’  ye  see — that  ere  bay.”  And  as  long  as  we  could  hear 
the  bells  he  continued  to  gaze  back,  tying  a  silk  handkerchief 
over  his  head  as  he  did  so,  to  protect  it  from  the  cold.  Whether 
the  aforesaid  Polly  was  his  wife,  and,  if  she  was,  whether  she 
was  mad  as  a  hornet,  are  matters  of  which  to  this  day  I  am  pro¬ 
foundly  ignorant ;  but  I  have  hoped  that  if  Polly  wrere  wdfe  to 
the  little  merchant,  she  was  pacified  with  a  new  dress,  and  that 
the  poor  beast  soon  got  the  better  of  the  lameness. 


UNCLE  WILLIAM’S. 


149 


The  fat  man  pointed  out  all  the  places  in  which  the  hogs  he 
had  just  sold  had  rested  of  nights,  and  each  time  he  concluded 
with,  “  Well,  they  ’ll  never  root  any  more.”  It  would  be  hard 
to  tell  why,  but  all  the  coach  passengers  looked  with  interest  at 
the  various  fields,  and  woods,  and  pens,  where  the  drover’s 
hogs  had  rested  on  their  fatal  journey  toward  the  city.  “  Just 
on  this  knoll,  or  that  rise,”  he  would  say,  “  a  fat  fellow  gave 
out,  and  we  let  him  have  a  ride  the  rest  of  the  way,  or  treated 
him  to  a  hot  bath.”  He  occupied  more  than  his  share  of  room, 
to  the  very  evident  annoyance  of  the  woman  who  was  on  the 
seat  with  him ;  for  she  had  much  less  than  half  for  herself  and 
her  child,  a  deformed  and  forlorn-looking  little  boy  of  perhaps 
six  years  of  age.  He  was  scantily,  even  meanly  dressed,  his 
bare  feet  hanging  quite  below  his  cotton  frock,  and  his  stiff 
fur  hat  so  large  as  to  fall  over  his  eyes,  which  were  remarkably 
black  and  large.  I  could  not  but  notice  that  the  mother,  as  I 
supposed  her  to  be,  wrapped  her  shawl  more  carefully  about 
herself  than  the  child,  who  kept  all  the  time  moaning  and  fret¬ 
ting,  sometimes  crying  out  bitterly.  She  made  no  effort  to 
soothe  him,  except  that  she  now  and  then  turned  his  face  from 
one  direction  to  another.  Once  or  twice  she  held  it  close  against 
her — I  thought  not  fondly,  but  crushingly — and  more  than 
once  or  twice  she  dashed  his  head  against  the  fat  man’s  side, 
partly  by  way  of  jostling  him,  as  I  thought,  and  partly  to 
punish  the  child  for  crying.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  till  his  little 
hands  were  wet  with  tears;  but  never  did  she  warm  them  in 
her  bosom  or  dry  them  with  kisses.  Indeed,  she  seemed  no 
more  concerned  than  as  if  she  had  held  on  her  lap  a  bundle  of 
sticks.  A  sudden  cry  of  evident  pain  drew  all  eyes  to  her. 
In  one  of  the  dabs  at  the  flit  man  she  had  scratched  the  boy’s 
face  with  a  pin  sticking  in  his  sleeve. 

“  Poor  little  beauty !”  whispered  a  pale,  lady-like  looking 
woman  to  the  person  beside  her,  a  black-whiskered,  well-fed 
sort  of  man  :  “  poor  little  beauty  !  I  wish  I  had  it.” 

“  Really,  Nelly,”  he  answered,  in  a  half  kind,  half  mocking 
way,  “  you  are  benevolent;”  and  in  a  lower  voice  he  added, 
“  considering  the  circumstances.” 

I  occupied  the  middle  seat,  with  the  merchant,  and  she  who 


160 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


had  spoken  so  kindly  sat  directly  behind  me,  but  I  turned  in¬ 
voluntarily  when  I  heard  her  voice,  and  saw,  as  I  have  said, 
that  she  looked  pale  and  delicate,  and  that  she  dropped  her  veil 
and  blushed  at  the  gentle  reproval  of  her  companion. 

With  this  couple  sat  a  rosy-cheeked,  middle-aged  woman, 
who  had  hitherto  kept  her  lips  compressed,  but,  as  it  appeared 
to  me,  with  difficulty.  She  now  leaned  across  the  lap  of  the 
gentleman,  and  asked  the  invalid  traveller  if  she  had  any  chil¬ 
dren  of  her  own,  and  if  she  was  married  or  single  ;  saying  she 
W'ondered  she  should  feel  such  sympathy  for  that  “  ornary  child,” 
for  that  nobody  but  a  mother  could  have  the  feelings  of  a  mo¬ 
ther.  “  Now  I,”  she  added,  “have  left  a  little  one  at  home — 
six  months  old  it  was  the  fourteenth  of  last  month — and  I ’m 
just  fairly  crazy,  though  I  have  n’t  been  gone  a  day,  as  you 
may  say,  for  it  was  three  o’clock  yesterday  wThen  I  started ; 
the  baby  was  asleep  then  ;  I  expect  maybe  he  cried  when  he 
waked  up  and  missed  me,  but  it  seemed  necessary  for  me  to 
go  away.  I  had  to  go,  in  fact,  as  you  may  say.  Nobody 
drove  me  to  be  sure,  but  then  we  wanted  a  good  many  things 
about  the  house  that,  as  you  may  say,  nobody  could  get  but 
myself,  and  I  thought  I  might  as  well  go  now  as  ever.  I  knew 
the  baby  would  be  taken  good  care  of  by  Liddy — that ’s  my 
oldest  girl ;  but  it  seemed  like  I  could  n’t  get  my  own  consent, 
and  I  went  without  it  at  last,  as  you  may  say.  Do  you  live  in 
town  V’  she  inquired  ;  and,  without  pausing  for  a  reply,  contin¬ 
ued,  “  A  body  sees  a  heap  of  pretty  things  that  a  body  would 
like  to  have,  do  n’t  they,  if  they  only  had  plenty  of  money  1 
This  is  a  tea-pot,”  she  said,  holding  up  a  carefully  wrapped 
parcel ;  “  it ’s  a  new  fashion,  they  told  me ;  but  I  think  it ’s  a 
new-fashioned  old  fashion  ;  for  I  remember,  when  I  was  a  girl, 
we  used  to  have  one  just  a’most  like  it.”  And  she  kindly  tore 
off  a  bit  of  the  envelope,  telling  the  lady  she  could  see  the 
color,  and  that  she  had  a  set  of  things  in  a  basket  on  the  top  of 
the  coach,  the  same  color,  and  the  make  of  the  same  man,  she 
supposed.  Dear  sakes  !  I  hope  none  of  them  will  get  broken, 
and  won’t  I  be  glad  to  see  my  baby  !”  Having  settled  herself 
in  her  place,  she  leaned  forward  again  to  say,  “  Just  hear  that 


UNCLE  WILLIAM’S. 


151 


fat  man  !  he  talks  about  his  affairs  as  if  he  thought  every  body 
as  much  interested  in  them  as  himself.” 

1  could  not  help  but  smile  at  her  innocent  simplicity.  IIow 
quick  we  are  to  detect  the  faults  of  others — how  slow  to  “  see 
ourselves  as  others  see  us.” 

“  Do  you  see  that  old  tree  with  the  fork  split  off  and  hang¬ 
ing  down?”  It  was  the  fat  man  who  asked  this  question — of 
nobody  in  particular — but  every  body  tried  to  see,  and  most 
of  us  did  see.  “  One  of  my  fellows  hung  himself  there  last 
week.  lie  was  well  the  day  before.  At  supper — we  slept  at 
a  tavern  not  half  a  mile  away — I  noticed  that  he  did  n’t  eat, 
and  seemed  down-hearted  like  ;  but  I  did  n’t  say  nothing  to 
him  ;  I  wish  now  I  had  ;  and  in  the  morning  he  could  n’t  be 
found,  high  nor  low.  Finally,  we  gave  up  the  search,  and  got 
our  drovers  started-along  later  than  common.  I  stopped  a  bit 
after  the  rest,  settling  with  the  landlord,  who  said  to  me,  in  a 
joking  way  like,  that  he  guessed  he ’d  have  to  charge  me  for 
his  wife’s  clothes-line ;  that  she  said  she  was  as  certain  as  she 
was  alive  that  it  hung  on  a  particular  peg  the  last  night,  and 
she  thought  the  missing  drover  knew  something  about  it;  he 
looked  wild  out  of  his  eyes,  she  said.  Just  that  way  he  spoke 
about  it ;  and  I  laughs  at  him,  mounts  my  horse,  and  rides 
away.  I  had  just  come  in  sight  of  the  drove  when  one  of  my 
fellers — that ’s  the  one  whose  legs  you  see,”  and  he  pointed  to  a 
pair  of  muddy  boots  hanging  against  the  window  from  the  out¬ 
side  of  the  coach, — “  came  toward  me  running  on  the  full  jump, 
and  told  me  they  had  discovered  Jake  hung  on  a  tree,  and 
swinging  in  the  wind,  stiff  as  a  poker.” 

“  Good  gracious  me  !”  exclaimed  the  woman  with  the  sick 
child,  and  giving  the  fat  man  as  much  room  as  possible,  “  how 
did  he  look,  and  what  did  you  do  with  him  ?” 

Look  !  he  looked  like  a  dead  man;  and  as  for  doing  with 
him,  we  cut  him  down,  and  put  him  under  ground  by  the  side 
of  an  old  black  log.” 

“  I  wish  I  could  see  the  one  that  discovered  him,”  the  woman 
said,  trying  to  pull  down  the  window ;  “  is  he  any  kin  to  the 
man  that  hung  himself,  and  had  he  taken  the  clothes-line?” 

He  had  taken  the  clothes-line,  but  the  landlady  on  its  being 


152 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


returned  to  her,  said  it  would  bring  bad  luck  to  the  house,  and 
so  threw  it  in  the  fire.” 

The  poor  child  was  not  thrust  against  him  any  more  ;  but  it 
kept  crying  and  moaning,  and  rubbing  its  eyes  and  the  scratch 
on  its  face,  which  smarted  as  the  tears  rolled  over  it. 

“  What  ails  your  child  ?”  asked  the  fat  man,  who  seemed 
not  to  have  noticed  its  crying  till  he  turned  to  answer  the 
nurse’s  question. 

“  Nothing,  only  he ’s  ugly  and  cross,”  she  answered. 

“  I  guess  any  of  us  would  feel  bad,”  said  the  rosy-cheeked 
woman  with  the  new  tea-pot,  “  if  our  bare  feet  hung  dangling 
about  like  his  ’n,  to  say  nothing  of  that  scratch  on  his  face. 
Wont  you  be  good  enough,  sir,  to  take  that  pin  out  of  your 
sleeve  ?” 

“  Certainly,  ma’am  ;  I  was  not  aware” — he  did  n’t  finish  the 
sentence  to  her,  for  she  had  leaned  across  the  coach,  and  was 
saying  to  the  pale  lady  that  she  never  could  see  what  a  man 
wanted  to  have  pins  sticking  about  him  for. 

“  Naughty  pin,  was  n’t  it !”  said  the  fat  man  to  the  baby, 
taking  from  his  sleeve  the  offending  instrument  and  throwing  it 
from  the  window ;  and  he  continued,  putting  the  child’s  feet  in 
one  of  his  mittens,  “  Tell  him  murrur  she  must  wrap  him  in 
her  shawl.” 

“You  needn’t  look  at  me,”  she  replied;  “I  am  not  his 
mother  by  a  great  sight ;  she ’s  in  a  mad-house  ;  they  just  took 
her  this  morning.  It  was  a  dreadful  sight — she  a  raving,  and 
the  children  screaming  and  carrying  on  at  a  dreadful  rate. 
They  say  she  is  past  all  cure,  and  I  s’pose  she  is.  She  liked  to 
have  pulled  all  the  hair  out  of  my  head  when  she  saw  1  was 
going  to  take  the  baby.  I  am  only  a  distant  relation,  but  it ’s 
not  always  near  of  kin  that  are  the  best  to  orphans.  Sit  up  !” 
she  exclaimed,  giving  the  child  a  rough  jerk  ;  “  do  n’t  lean  against 
the  gentleman  as  heavy  as  a  bag  of  mush.”  The  fat  man  had 
become  a  lion  in  her  estimation  since  she  learned  that  one  of 
his  drovers  had  hanged  himself. 

“  He  does  n’t.  disturb  me  in  the  least,”  said  he;  and  takins 
off  the  child’s  hat,  he  smoothed  its  hair  with  his  great  hand. 

“  I  guess  he  is  a  right  nice  man,”  said  the  rosy-cheeked  wo- 


UNCLE  WILLIAM’S. 


153 


man,  leaning  toward  her  of  the  pale  cheek,  who  was  untying  a 
fur  cape  from  her  neck.  “  Put  it  round  the  little  boy,  my  good 
woman,”  she  said,  reaching  it  toward  her. 

“  Really,  Nelly,”  said  the  gentleman  beside  her,  and  he 
looked  at  her  with  evident  displeasure. 

But  the  woman  returned  the  cape,  saying,  “  He ’s  got  to  take 
the  world  as  he  can  get  it ;  there  is  no  use  of  wrapping  him  in 
a  fine  fur  cape  for  an  hour.” 

“That  fellow  up  there,”  said  the  fat  man,  “could  give 
more  particulars  than  I  can  about  the  wretched  suicide  I  was 
telling  of.” 

“  Wretched  what'?”  inquired  the  woman. 

“The  fellow  that  was  so  fond  of  swinging;”  and  as  he  spoke 
he  lifted  the  child  from  her  knees,  unbuttoned  his  brown  coat, 
and  folded  him  warmly  beneath  it,  resting  his  chin  on  the  boy’s 
hair,  informing  him  that  at  home  he  had  a  little  boy  just  about 
his  size,  and  asking  him  if  he  would  like  to  go  home  with  him 
and  be  his  little  boy. 

The  coach  now  rattled  along  at  a  lively  rate,  and,  soothed  by 
the  warmth  and  the  kindliness  of  the  drover’s  tone,  the  poor  lit¬ 
tle  fellow  was  soon  fast  asleep. 

I  noticed  that  the  lady  in  the  corner  looked  weary;  and  that 
once  when  she  laid  her  head  on  the  shoulder  of  the  man  beside 
her,  he  moved  uneasily,  as  if  the  weight  burdened  him,  and 
that  she  lifted  herself  up  again,  though  she  seemed  scarcely 
able  to  do  so. 

“That’s  my  house,”  said  the  rosy-cheeked  woman,  “right 
fernent  William  Peters’s  ;  and  f  guess  I  am  as  glad  to  get 
home  as  they  will  be  to  see  me — the  dear  knows  I  did  n’t  want 
to  go.  I  would  have  paid  anybody,  and  been  very  much 
obliged  to  them  besides,  if  they  could  have  done  my  errands 
for  me.” 

At  the  gate  of  her  house  an  obedient-looking  man  stood  in 
waiting  for  her  ;  and  as  the  crockery  was  handed  down,  the  good- 
natured  owner  gathered  her  sundry  little  parcels  together; 
shook  hands  with  the  pale  lady,  saying  she  hoped  she  would 
soon  get  the  better  of  the  ill  turn  she  seemed  to  have ;  un¬ 
covered  the  baby’s  face,  and  kissed  it,  dropping  a  tear  on  its 


154 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


clasped  hands,  as  she  did  so,  and  saying  “Just  to  think  if  it 
was  mine  !”  I  suppose  by  way  of  apology  for  what  the  world 
considers  a  weakness;  and,  smiling  a  sort  of  benediction  on  us 
all.  she  descended  the  side  of  the  coach.  I  followed,  for  my 
destination  was  also  reached. 

“  You  going  to  stop  here?  Well  now,  if  that  don’t  beat 
all !  I  suppose  you  are  Mr.  Peters’s  niece  that  I ’ve  heard  so 
much  tell  of.  And  as  I  am  alive,  if  there  aint  Delia,  just  going 
away  !  Poor  girl,  I  guess  she  leaves  her  heart  behind  her.” 
This  suspicion  she  imparted  in  a  whisper;  and  having  Said  I 
must  come  in  and  see  her,  she  flew  rather  than  walked  toward 
the  house,  for  Jane  was  coming  to  meet  her  with  the  baby.  I 
could  only  shake  hands  an  instant  with  my  cousin  Delia,  who 
seemed  to  anticipate  little  happiness  from  her  journey,  as  I 
judged  from  tear-blind  eyes  and  quivering  lips.  I  thought  she 
whispered  to  her  father  something  about  remaining  at  home, 
now  that  I  was  come. 

“  Oh,  no,  Dillie,  I  do  n’t  think  it ’s  worth  while,”  he  said ; 
“  she  will  stay  here  all  winter,  and  you  will  be  back  in  a  month, 
at  furthest.” 

The  companion  of  the  pale  lady  assisted  Delia  into  the  coach 
with  much  gallantry  ;  the  driver’s  whip-lash  made  a  circuit  in 
the  air ;  the  jaded  horses  sprang  forward  as  though  fresh  for 
the  race  ;  and  the  poor  little  child,  with  its  bare  feet  and  red 
hands,  was  lost  to  me  forever.  May  the  good  Shepherd  have 
tempered  the  winds  to  its  needs,  and  strengthened  it  against 
temptations,  in  all  its  career  in  this  hard  and  so  often  unchari¬ 
table  world 


II. 

“  How  glad  I  am  you  have  come,”  said  uncle  William, 
when  we  were  in  the  house ;  “  but  it  seems  kind  a  lonesome 
for  all.” 

Jane  was  ten  years  older  than  Delia — not  so  pretty  nor  sty¬ 
lish,  but  very  good,  motherly,  and  considerate.  They  had  no 
mother,  and  lived  with  their  father  in  the  old  house  where  they 
were  brought  up.  Delia  was  about  sixteen  at  the  time  of  my 


UNCLE  WILLIAM'S. 


155 


visit;  handsome,  captivating,  .and  considered'  quite  the  belle  of 
the  village  and  neighborhood. 

O  o 

We  were  a  small  and  quiet  family  at  uncle  William’s.  He 
himself  did  little  but  tend  the  parlor  fire,  read  the  newspaper, 
and  consult  the  almanac  and  his  watch,  which  things  made  up 
his  world.  He  knew  all  the  phases  of  the  moon,  and  what  the 
weather  would  be  likely  to  be  for  a  month  in  advance ;  he  knew 
what  his  favorite  editor  said,  and  believed  it;  in  fact,  there  was 
no  other  paper ;  its  contents  seemed  designed  more  especially 
for  him  than  for  anybody  else  ;  and  to  this  day  I  can  not  rid 
myself  of  the  impression  that  uncle  William’s  newspaper  was 
altogether  the  most  excellent  thing  of  its  kind  in  the  world. 
When  the  sun  came  up,  he  took  from  beneath  the  parlor  look¬ 
ing-glass,  where  it  hung  of  nights,  the  great  silver  chronometer 
that  had  been  his  father’s  and  his  grandfather’s,  turned  the  kev 
a  few  times,  held  it  to  his  ear,  consulted  the  almanac,  and  com¬ 
pared  the  sunrise  with  his  time,  as  if  to  see  that  the  sun  were 
punctual  to  its  appointment.  He  then  mended  the  fire,  and 
took  up  the  “  Republican,”  and  when  it  was  read  through  once 
he  began  again,  more  studiously  to  examine,  and  thoughtfully  to 
digest  its  most  noticeable  contents.  It  always  had  something 
good  in  it,  he  said,  and  it  would  do  him  no  harm  to  read  some 
of  the  pieces  a  dozen  times.  When  the  sunlight  slanted  through 
the  south  window,  he  carefully  folded  the  paper,  and  again  con¬ 
sulted  his  watch.  At  sunset  another  comparison  was  made  of 
time  authorities,  and  the  almanac  again  resorted  to,  and  then 
began  the  evening  reading. 

Uncle  William  never  indulged  in  what  is  termed  frivolous 
conversation ;  the  only  thing  in  the  way  of  fun  I  ever  heard  him 
say  was  that  the  editor  of  his  paper  was  a  man  that  had  a  head. 
But  he  was  less  morose,  and  far  more  genial,  than  another  of 
my  relations,  uncle  Christopher,  with  whom  he  held  no  inter¬ 
course  whatever,  but  of  whom  I  shall  have  something  to  relate 
in  these  reminiscences  of  Clovernook  history. 

Jane  had  little  more  to  sav  than  her  father.  She  never  read, 
and  had  never  been  from  home  ;  and  so,  of  course,  she  was  not 
very  wise;  and  as  she  never  talked  of  things  that  did  not  con¬ 
cern  her,  there  was  not  much  for  her  to  discuss.  In  all  ways 


156 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


she  was  strictly  proper;  so  much  so  that  ordinary  mortals  found 
it  more  difficult  to  love  her  than  they  would  have  done  had  she 
possessed  more  of  the  common  human  infirmities.  Our  con¬ 
versation  was  mostly  of  the  weather,  with  which,  however,  she 
was  always  contented ;  so  that  if  the  storm  beat  never  so  tem¬ 
pestuously,  I  scarcely  dared  yawn,  or  say  even  that  “  I  wish 
it  would  clear  off.” 

I  should  have  been  happier  if  the  house  had  been  left  in  some 
disorder  on  Delia’s  departure,  so  that 'we  might  have  employed 
ourselves  by  setting  it  to  rights;  but  everything  was  in  its 
place ;  so  we  of  necessity  sat  down  by  the  fire,  and  the  little  we 
did  say  was  in  whispers,  that  we  might  not  disturb  uncle  AVil- 
liam,  who'  forever  sat  by,  reading  in  a  monotonous  mutter, 
neither  aloud  nor  in  silence.  Sometimes  he  would  invite  me 
to  read,  for  the  benefit  of  himself,  who  had  read  it  twenty  times 
previously,  Jane,  who  did  n’t  care  a  straw  for  reading,  and  the 
sixteen  cats  that  dozed  about  the  hearth,  some  “  piece”  which 
he  thought  of  remarkable  interest  or  beauty. 

“  Will  Delia  be  gone  long  V  I  inquired  after  my  arrival ;  for 
I  had  previously  learned  that  she  was  gone  two  or  three  hundred 
miles  from  Elm  Ridge,  to  a  small  city  which  1  had  never  known 
uncle  William’s  folks  to  visit,  and  I  was  curious  to  know  the 
why  and  wherefore.  Jane  stitched  a  little  faster,  I  thought; 
the  twilight  was  deepening  so  much  that  I  could  not  have  seen 
to  stitch,  at  all ;  but  she  only  answered  that  her  sister’s  stay 
was  uncertain. 

“  I  didn’t  know  you  had  friends  there,”  I  said,  for  I  did  not 
like  to  ask  more  directly. 

“Did  n’t  you  1”  answered  Jane,  stitching  as  before. 

I  was  not  discouraged,  and  remembering  what  the  rosy- 
cheeked  woman  had  said  about  Delia’s  having  left  her  heart  be¬ 
hind  her,  I  continued,  “  She  has  grown  very  pretty  since  I  saw 
her ;  she  must  be  very  much  admired.” 

“  Our  preacher’s  wife  gave  her  a  book,”  she  said,  “  at  Christ¬ 
mas,  and  our  singing  master — old  Mr.  White — offered  to  teach 
her  for  nothing.”  And  these  were  all  the  evidences  of  the 
admiration  she  received  which  Propriety  Jane  thought  fit  to 
disclose  for  me. 


UNCLE  WILLIAM’S. 


167 


“Who  lives  opposite?”  I  asked;  for  the  house  looked  so 
cheerful,  with  its  lights  moving  about,  the  chimneys  sending 
up  their  blue  smoke,  and  the  bustling  in  and  out  of  doors,  that 
I  could  not  help  wishing  myself  there,  since  not  a  candle  was 
lighted  in  our  house,  and  there  was  no  supper  in  preparation, 
nor  any  cheerful  talk  to  enliven  the  time. 

•  “  Mr.  Widdleton’s  folks,”  replied  Jane,  and  rising  from  her 
chair,  she  stood  close  against  the  window,  that  she  might  see  to 
stitch  a  little  longer. 

“  What  sort  of  people  are  they  ?” 

“  Oh,  very  nice  people.” 

“  It  must  have  been  Mrs.  Widdleton  with  whom  I  came  up 
in  the  coach :  a  rosy -cheeked,  good-natured  woman,  who  seems 
fond  of  talking.” 

“  Yes,  it  was  she.” 

“  Well,”  said  I,  “she  bought  a  new  teapot,  with  a  variety  of 
other  things,  as  she  was  good  enough  to  inform  us  all.” 

Jane  made  no  reply  whatever,  nor  by  smile  or  gesture  indi¬ 
cated  that  Mrs.  Widdleton  had  been  communicative  in  any 
unusual  degree. 

The  snow  was  falling  dismally,  the  fire  was  low,  and  the 
coming  on  of  night  seemed  gloomy  enough.  Uncle  William 
was  splitting  pine  boards  into  kindling,  and  though  all  day  1 
had  wished  he  would  afford  us  by  his  absence  a  little  opportu¬ 
nity  for  conversation,  I  now  heartily  wished  he  would  return, 
and  tell  us  when  the  moon  would  change. 

As  I  listened  to  the  winds,  and  wondered  what  kept  my  uncle 
and  cousin  alive,  there  was  a  low  and  what  seemed  to  me  a 
very  timid  rap  at  the  door.  Jane  opened  it ;  and  though  her 
tone  evinced  neither  surprise  nor  pleasure,  it  wras  not  uncivil, 
as  she  received  the  visitor.  He  seemed — for  he  was  a  young 
man — not  to  feel  at  liberty  to  sit  down,  though  Jane  invited 
him  so  to  do;  but,  having  made  some  commonplace  observa¬ 
tions  relative  to  the  weather,  he  inquired  whether  Miss  Delia 
were  at  home. 

“  No,”  answered  Jane ;  and  she  gave  no  intimation  as  to 
where  her  sister  was  gone,  or  when  she  would  return,  or 
whether  she  would  ever  do  so. 


158 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“  I  will  then  bid  you  good  evening,”  he  said,  “  and  do  myself 
the  pleasure  of  calling  again.” 

When  he  was  gone,  Jane  left  the  room,  having  made  no 
reply  to  the  young  gentleman’s  intimation. 

On  his  entrance,  I  had  stirred  the  coals  to  make  a  little  light, 
but  it  was  so  faint  that  I  saw  him  but  imperfectly,  though  with 
enough  distinctness  to  warrant  me  in  believing  him  a  very 
handsome  man,  of  not  more  than  twenty-two  or  three  years  of 
age.  Besides,  his  voice  was  so  soft  and  musical  as,  together 
with  his  fair  looks,  to  leave  a  most  agreeable  impression.  Who 
he  was  or  whence  he  came  I  could  not  know,  but  somehow  [ 
was  interested  in  him,  and  pressing  my  face  to  the  window, 
looked  eagerly  through  the  snow  to  see  in  what  direction  he 
went.  At  the  gate  he  paused,  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets, 
and  seemed  to  muse  for  a  moment,  looking  oner  way  and  then 
another,  as  if  in  doubt  what  to  do;  but  presently  he  lighted  a 
cigar  with  a  match,  and,  turning  in  the  direction  of  a  tavern, 
was  quickly  lost  from  my  observation. 

“Who  was  that  young  person?”  I  asked,  when  Jane  returned 
to  the  parlor. 

“  Edward  Courtney .” 

“  Does  he  live  in  the  village?” 

“No.” 

“  I  noticed  that  he  went  in  that  direction.” 

Jane  lighted  the  candle  and  took  up  her  work. 

“  Very  handsome,  is  n’t  he  ?”  I  said. 

“  Yes.” 

“  What  is  his  occupation  ?” 

“  His  father,  with  whom  he  lives,  is  a  farmer,  but  lately  come 
to  our  neighborhood.” 

“  Well,  I  wish  he  had  passed  the  evening  with  us,  and  not 
been  so  exclusively  devoted  to  Miss  Delia.” 

Jane  said  nothing,  and  I  inquired  when  he  would  be  likely  to 
come  again. 

“  I  do  n’t  know.” 

“Really,  Jane,”  I  said,  “you  are  provoking;  for  once  in 
your  life  tell  me  something  I  wish  to  find  out.  What  is  it,  that 
his  name  is  Edward  Courtney,  and  that  his  father  is  a  farmer; 


UNCLE  WILLIAM’S. 


169 


he  may  be  a  scapegrace  for  all  that.  Pray,  what  do  you  know 
about  him,  and  why  do  you  not  like  him?  for  I  am  sure  you  do 
rot.” 

/“  Why,  yes,  I  like  him  well  enough,”  she  answered ;  “  but  I 
know  nothing  about  him  to  tell ;  he  is  rather  a  wild  young 
man,  I  think.” 

“  What  wild  thing  has  he  done  ?” 

“  Oh,  I  do  n’t  know:  I  don’t  know  as  he  is  wild.’ 

And  holding  out  one  foot,  she  asked  me  how  I  liked  her 
shoes,  saying  they  were  made  out  of  dog-skin  ;  she  thought  they 
were  as  pretty  as  morocco,  and  her  father  said  he  thought  they 
would  last  all  winter. 

“  S’cat !”  exclaimed  uncle  William,  at  this  moment  making 
his  way  through  a  dozen  of  the  feline  tribe ;  and  having  mended 
the  fire,  he  said  he  believed  the  moon  quartered  that  night,  and 
proceeded  to  examine  the  almanac. 

To  me  the  evening  seemed  setting  in  very  lonesomely,  and  it 
was  a  most  agreeable  surprise  when  one  of  Mrs.  Widdleton’s 
children  came  in  to  ask  cousin  Jane  and  myself  to  pass  it  with 
her.  To  my  disappointment,  however,  Jane  did  not  feel  like 
going ;  she  was  afraid  of  getting  the  toothache,  and  believed 
she  could  not  go  very  well. 

“  You  go,  any  how,”  said  the  boy  who  had  asked  us  ;  “Mother 
says  if  you  ain’t  acquainted,  come  and  get  acquainted.” 

I  hesitated,  for  it  seemed  awkward  to  go  alone  into  a  stran¬ 
ger’s  house,  but  the  urgency  of  the  lad  and  my  own  inclination 
prevailed  ;  and  I  was  already  aware  that  the  social  customs  of 
Elm  Ridge  were  not  trammeled  by  oppressive  conventional 
restrictions. 

On  my  arrival,  I  saw,  to  my  surprise,  the  whiskered  gentle¬ 
man  whom  1  have  mentioned  as  the  companion  of  the  pale  lady 
in  the  coach. 

“  Really,  madam,”  he  said,  “  I  do  hope,  if  it  will  not  be  a 
serious  inconvenience,  that  I  can  prevail  upon  you — not  so 
much  on  my  own  account  as  for  my  wife’s  sake.  She  is  pious, 
and  does  n’t  like  being  at  the  hotel,  where  Sunday  is  pretty 
nearly  as  good  as  any^other  day.” 


160 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“  And  are  you  not  pious '?”  asked  Mrs.  Widdleton,  looking 
at  him  in  innocent  astonishment. 

lie  smiled  and  shook  his  head,  but  made  no  other  answer. 

“  Well,  I  do  n’t  know  what  to  say.  I  liked  the  little 
woman” — 

“  Yes,  I  like  her  too,”  interrupted  the  man,  with  a  peculiar 
smile,  intended  perhaps  as  an  expression  of  humor. 

“  Did  you  ever !”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Widdleton,  and  she  went 
on  to  say  that  she  feared  their  plain  way  of  living  would  not 
suit  a  fine  lady,  who  had  been  used  to  servants,  and  like 
enough  never  had  to  wet  her  hands.  She  would  see  what 
Abner  thought. 

“  By  all  means.” 

And  the  gentleman  seated  himself,  and  caressed  one  leg, 
while  she  withdrew,  for  a  consultation,  to  the  kitchen,  where  a 
hammering  seemed  to  indicate  the  going  forward  of  some  active 
business. 

“  Just  have  it  your  own  way,  mother,”  I  heard  him  say.  “  If 
you  are  a  mind  to  do  more  and  have  more,  why  you  can  ;  but 
seems  to  me  you  have  enough  to  do ;  though  I  do  n’t  care.  Do 
just  as  you  please;  but  I  hate  to  have  you  make  a  slave  of 
yourself,  mother.” 

“Well,  Abner,”  she  answered,  “one  or  two  more  in  the 
family  don’t  seem  to  make  much  difference;  and  if  they  are 
not  suited,  why  they  can  find  another  place,  may  be.” 

When  the  gentleman  had  taken  leave,  which  he  did  very 
politely,  Mrs.  Widdleton  informed  me  that  his  name  was  Heve- 

lvn  •  that  he  was  a  southern  man,  lately  married,  and  had  come 

«/  ' 

north  for  the  sake  of  his  wife  s  health.  This  she  had  learned 
during  her  late  interview  with  him.  She  also  informed  me  she 
was  going  to  board  them  awhile  ;  that  she  wanted  to  get  a  few 
things  for  Liddy,  more  than  she  could  spare  the  money  to  buy 

_ not  that  Abner  would  be  unwilling  to  give  it  to  her,  but  then 

he  had  so  many  uses  for  his  money. 

Mrs.  Widdleton  was  one  of  those  bustling,  active  women, 
who  never  seem  in  their  right  sphere  except  with  hands  full  and 
overflowing.  Everybody  was  active  about  her— Mr.  Widdle¬ 
ton  mending  her  washing-tub,  Liddy  making  a  new  gown,  one 


UNCLE  WILLIAM’S. 


161 


of  the  children  rocking  the  cradle,  and  all  at  something.  As 
for  what  she  did  during  the  evening  in  the  way  of  mending  and 
making,  1  can  not  recount  it,  but  the  cradle  was  heaped,  and  so 
were  all  the  chairs  about  her,  with  the  work  she  did.  We  had 
cakes,  and  apples,  and  cider,  and  nuts,  besides  a  constant  flow 
of  talking,  in  which  Mr.  Widdleton,  having  finished  his  tub, 
participated.  I  felt,  1  remember,  a  wish  that  everybody  might 
be  just  as  contented  as  they,  and.  have  just  as  bright  a  fire. 

But  Mrs.  Widdleton— ah  me,  I  do  n’t  like  to  write  that 
l£  but ” — was  a  little  given  to  talking  of  things  that  did  not  con¬ 
cern  her,  as  well  as  of  things  that  did  ;  and  when  the  children 
were  gone  to  bed,  and  while  Abner  had  ground  the  Coffee  for 
breakfast — “he  is  so  handy  about  the  house,”  said  Mrs.  Wrid- 
dleton — we  drew  close  to  the  embers,  and  the  good  woman 
glided  naturally  from  her  own  tea-set  to  the  tea-sets  of  her 
neighbors,  and  thence  the  transition  to  her  neighbors  them¬ 
selves  was  almost  imperceptible.  A  number  of  interesting 
little  family  affairs  came  to  my  knowledge  that  night;  but 
I  will  not  attempt  a  report  of  all  her  disclosures — only  of  some 
intimations  that  more  immediately  interested  me.  Uncle  Wil¬ 
liam  and  Jane  had  put  their  heads  together,  she  said,  and  sent 
off  Delia,  the  dear  knows  where,  to  prevent  her  keeping  the 
company  of  Edward  Courtney ;  and  for  her  part  she  thought, 
though  she  did  n’t  want  to  say  anything  one  way  or  the  other, 
and  it  was  very  seldom  she  did  speak  at  all,  that  Delia  or  any 
other  girl  might  go  further  and  fare  worse,  for  Edward  Court¬ 
ney  was  just  as  nice  a  young  man,  apparently,  as  ever  she  set 
eyes  on,  and  she  would  just  as  soon  a  daughter  of  hers  married 
him  as  to  marry  some  persons  that  some  persons  thought  a 
good  deal  better,  or  to  live  at  home  till  she  was  forty  years 
old,  and  nurse  the  cats.  Jane,  she  confessed,  was  just  as  good 
a  girl  as  ever  was,  and  uncle  William  was  just  as  good  a  man 
as  ever  was,  but  they  would  think  it  very  hard  to  be  made  to 
marry  somebody  they  did  n’t  like;  and,  for  her  part,  she 
thought  it  was  just  as  bad  to  be  kept  from  marrying  whom  you 
did  like.  “  It ’s  one  thing  to  marry,”  said  Mrs.  Widdleton, 
“  and  another  thing  to  love  the  man  you  marry ;  and,  for  my 


162 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


part,  I  would  have  Abner  or  I  would  have  nobody.  I  was 
always  averse  to  match-making,  but  I  have  a  great  mind  as  ever 
I  had  in  my  life” — she  suddenly  paused,  and  added,  “  No,  I 
do  n’t  know  as  I  will,  either ;  but  I  hate  to  see  folks  as  cool  as 
a  cucumber  about  such  things,  and  think  nobody  has  any  feel¬ 
ing  more  than  themselves.  Poor  Delia  !  Yes,  I  have  the 
greatest  mind — no — I  do  n’t  know  as  I  will — I  might  reflect  on 
myself  if  it  did  n’t  all  come  out  right.”  And  she  vigorously 
trotted  her  baby,  long  after  he  was  asleep  ;  and  I  have  always 
thought  that  then  and  there  she  settled  the  knotty  point,  for  she 
said  at  last,  with  a  smile,  that  if  she  should  tell  Edward  where 
Delia  was,  it  would  n’t  be  telling  him  to  go  there  and  marry 
her;  but  even  if  she  should  give  him  a  piece  of  her  mind  to  that 
effect,  she  did  n’t  know  as  they  could  take  her  up  and  hang  her. 
Before  I  returned  to  uncle  William’s  that  night,  she  concluded 
she  would  call  on  Mrs.  Courtney  in  a  day  or  two ;  she  wanted 
to  borrow  a  dress  pattern  of  her  ;  perhaps  she  would  see  Ed¬ 
ward,  and  perhaps  not ;  and  she  did  n’t  know  as  she  would  say 
anything  about  Delia  if  she  did  see  him ;  it  was  the  pattern  she 
wanted.  But  notwithstanding  this  conclusion,  I  felt  assured 
that  she  would  give  Edward  the  “  piece  of  her  mind”  with 
which  she  had  first  proposed  to  endow  him. 

The  following  day  I  related  to  Jane  the  incidents  of  the  even¬ 
ing  :  how  Mr.  Widdleton  had  mended  a  tub,  and  his  wife  had 
darned  and  mended  ;  in  fact,  whatever  had  been  done  or  said 
that  could  interest  her,  not  omitting  the  conversation  about 
Edward  and  Delia — for  I  was  determined  to  find  out  something 
in  reference  to  the  affair,  as  I  persuaded  myself  I  had  a  perfect 
right  to  do,  considering  our  relationship;  and  Delia’s  pale- face 
haunted  me  ;  her  supplicating  appeal  for  permission  to  remain 
at  home  I  felt  assured  was  not  on  my  account;  I  saw  pots 
of  her  flowers  standing  about,  dying  from,  neglect,  and  I  could 
not  help  thinking  her  thoughts  had  been  otherwhere.  So,  as 
I  said,  I  told  Jane  that  Mrs.  Widdleton  thought  Delia  and 
Edward  would  make  a  fine  match,  and  that  she  was  sorry  it 
was  likely  not  to  take  place ;  for  I  did  not  choose  to  repeat 
her  precise  words.  My  very  proper  cousin  colored  slightly, 


UNCLE  WILLIAM’S, 


163 


and  said,  that  if  Mrs.  Widdleton  had  not  so  many  excellent 
qualities,  she  would  be  a  busybody.  This  was  the  only  re¬ 
proach  of  any  one  I  ever  heard  from  her.  I  confess  to  greater 
imperfection ;  the  affairs  of  other  people  interest  me,  and  I 
am  apt  sometimes  to  say  what  I  think  of  their  conduct  and 
character. 

\  used  to  take  my  seat  at  the  window,  and  there  being 
neither  conversation  nor  reading  within,  I  naturally  looked  out 
for  amusement,  and  found  it  in  the  movements  of  our  neigh¬ 
bors  ;  for  humanity  is  more  to  us  than  everything  else,  as  those 
who  have  passed  a  winter  in  an  isolated  country  place  can  very 
easily  believe.  The  evening  after  this  visit,  I  saw  a  light  in  the 
front  chamber  of  Mr.  Widdleton’s  house,  where  I  had  never 
seen  a  light  before,  and  supposed  the  Hevelyns  were  there. 
The  following  morning  I  saw  Mrs.  Widdleton  set  out,  bright 
and  early,  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Courtney’s  house.  She 
walked  against  the  north  wind  with  a  straightforward  and  ener¬ 
getic  step,  and  I  wondered  whether  there  were  any  purpose  in 
her  movements  that  did  not  concern  the  pattern.  It  was  nearly 
noon  when  she  returned,  accompanied  by  young  Mr.  Courtney. 
They  paused  at  the  gate,  and  seemed  in  earnest  conversation 
for  a  long  time.  Liddy  came  to  the  door  and  looked  earnestly 
toward  her  mother  several  times ;  the  baby  was  fretting,  I 
knew  ;  but  as  often  as  they  seemed  about  to  separate  they  drew 
nearer  again,  till  it  seemed  their  conversation  would  never  have 
an  end.  Seated  on  the  outside  of  the  evening  coach  that  day  I 
noticed  a  young  man  who,  I  thought,  resembled  Courtney,  and 
I  was  the  more  convinced  of  its  being  him  from  the  graceful 
way  in  which  he  recognized  Mrs.  Widdleton,  as  he  passed.  A 
red  scarf  about  his  neck  concealed,  in  part,  his  face,  so  that  1 
could  not  be  positive  it  wras  he.  “  But  if  it  is,”  thought  I, 
“he  may  have  a  thousand  objects  in  view  besides  Delia.  I 
have  no  right  to  think  anything  about  it.”  Still  I  did  think 
about  it. 

Often  in  the  courses  of  the  days  I  saw  Mrs.  Hevelyn,  wrapt 
in  a  shawl  which  seemed  of  a  very  rich  and  costly  pattern, 
r  anding  or  sitting  by  the  chamber  window.  Sometimes  I  ob- 


164 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


served  her  wipe  her  eyes,  and  always  her  movements  indicated 
sadness  and  dejection.  Occasionally  when  the  sun  shone  in  the 
middle  of  the  day,  she  walked  about  the  yard,  examined  the 
dead  flowers,  and  looked  up  and  down  the  lonesome  road,  re¬ 
turning  again  to  the  house  with  a  languid  and  heavy  step. 
When  the  evening  coach  came  rattling  over  the  near  hill,  I  saw 
her  either  raise  the  sash  or  step  out  into  the  yard,  and  watch  it 
eagerly,  as  though  in  expectation  of  some  one ;  and  when  it 
passed  she  would  sometimes  return  with  her  handkerchief  to 
her  eyes,  and  sometimes,  sinking  at  once  on  the  frozen  ground, 
sit,  as  though  powerless  to  go  in,  for  an  hour  or  more.  One 
sunshiny  day  I  went  out  into  the  yard  to  see  if  the  flags  were 
sprouting  or  the  daffodils  coming  through  the  grass,  for  I  had 
seen  a  blue-bird  twittering  in  the  lilac  and  picking  its  feathers 
that  morning.  “  How  d’  you  do  '?”  called  a  voice  that  seemed 
not  altogether  unfamiliar,  and  looking  up,  I  saw  Mrs.  Widdle- 
ton  leaning  over  her  yard-fence,  with  the  evident  intention  of 
having;  a  little  chat. 

“  What  is  the  news,”  she  asked,  “  at  your  house  V1 

“  Oh  nothing  ;  what  is  the  news  with  you  ?” 

“  How  does  uncle  William  (for  she  called  Mr.  Peters  uncle 
William  when  she  spoke  to  me  of  him)  seem  to  take  it'?” 

“  Take  what  ?”  said  I. 

“  Why,  about  Edward  and  Delia.” 

“  And  what  about  them  1” 

“Why,  they  say  he ’s  gone  off  to  B - .”  Here  she  low¬ 

ered  her  voice,  and,  saying  that  walls  had  ears  sometimes, 
crossed  from  her  yard-fence  to  ours.  “  He ’s  gone  off  to 
B - ,”  she  continued,  “  and  they  say  it ’s  to  get  married.” 

“  Is  it  possible  !” 

“  Yes  ;  and  old  Mr.  Courtney  is  going  back  to  the  city  to 
live,  and  they  say  Edward  and  Delia  are  going  right  into  the 
old  house  ;  and  from  the  way  things  seem  to  begin  and  go  on, 
I  think  they  will  do  well.” 

I  said  I  thought  so  too,  though  what  things  she  had  seen 
beginning  and  going  on  I  was  not  in  the  least  advised,  however 
shrewdly  I  might  guess. 


UNCLE  WILLIAM’S. 


165 


If  they  should  be  married,  and  come  and  live  in  the  old  place, 
and  do  right  well,  as  she  hoped  and  believed  they  would,  she 
thought  Miss  Jane  and  “uncle  William”  would  be  ashamed  of 
themselves. 


III. 

As  often  as  I  met  the  ever  busy  and  good  natured  Mrs.  Wid- 
dleton,  she  had  much  to  say  about  poor  Mrs.  Hevelyn.  Her 
husband  went  away,  she  said,  the  very  day  he  brought  her  there 
and  right  among  strangers  so,  it  seemed  as  if  the  poor  thing 
would  cry  her  eyes  out.  “Often  of  evenings,”  said  Mrs.  Wid- 
dleton,  “  I  go  up  into  her  room  to  have  a  cheerful  chat.  You 
know  a  body  must  talk  or  they  won’t  say  anything — and  I  find 
her  lying  on  the  bed,  her  face  all  smothered  in  the  pillow,  and 
her  heart  ready  to  break.”  She  informed  me  further,  that  Mr. 
Hevelyn  had  written  only  once,  and  then  barely  a  few  lines, 
since  he  went  away. 

Two  or  three  days  went  by,  when,  at  nightfall,  I  observed  an 
unusual  stir  about  Mr.  Widdleton’s  house  ;  lights  moved  busily 
from  cellar  to  chamber ;  a  strange  woman,  in  a  high  white  cap, 
appeared  from  time  to  time ;  and  presently  the  two  little 
girls  came  over  to  pass  the  evening,  saying  their  mother 
had  given  them  leave  to  stay  all  night  if  they  wished  to. 
The  next  morning  the  chamber-windows  were  closed,  and 
Mrs.  Widdleton  herself  came  in  soon  after  breakfast  to  take 
her  children  home,  and  informed  them  that  somebody  had 
brought  Mrs.  Hevelyn  “  the  sweetest  little  baby  !”  Tidings 
were  despatched  to  the  absent  husband,  and  day  after  day 
the  young  mother  exerted  herself  beyond  her  ability  to  make 
her  little  darling  look  pretty,  that  the  heart  of  the  expected 
father  might  be  rejoiced  the  more;  and  day  after  day  the 
coach  went  by,  and  the  sun  went  down,  and  he  did  not 
come.  At  length,  one  day,  in  answer  to  Mrs.  Widdleton’s 
urgent  entreaties,  and  with  a  hope  of  giving  the  poor  lady  some 
comfort,  1  went  in  to  sit  for  an  hour  with  her,  taking  my  sewing. 
1  found  her  a  sweet  and  lovable  creature,  indeed — not  possessed 


166 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


of  very  strong  mind  or  marked  characteristics,  but  gentle,  con¬ 
fiding,  and  amiable.  She  had  put  back  her  curls  in  motherly 
fashion,  and  her  cheek  was  thin  and  pale ;  but  she  was  beauti¬ 
ful,  and  her  large  eyes  had  in  them  a  pathos  and  power  which 
drew  one  toward  her,  as  if  by  a  spell.  She  seemed  pleased 
with  my  praise  of  the  child;  said  she  had  named  him  John,  for 
his  father;  and  added,  “  He  wants  to  see  the  darling  so  much  ! 
and  nothing  but  the  most  pressing  necessity  keeps  him  away — 
poor  John  !”  It  was  a  new  illustration  of  the  difficulty  of  dis¬ 
possessing  a  faithful  heart  of  its  confidence :  she  would  be  the 
last  to  learn  how  little  that  father  merited  her  affection. 

“  Do  you  think  my  little  beauty  is  going  to  have  red  hair 
she  said,  pressing  her  lips  against  his  head.  Her  own  was  a 
deep  auburn.  She  looked  at  me,  as  if  she  wanted  me  to  say 
no ;  but  I  could  not,  conscientiously,  and  so  replied  evasively, 
“  Why,  do  n’t  you  like  that  color  ?” 

“  I  do  n’t  care,”  she  said ;  “  it  would  be  pretty  to  me,  no 
matter  what  color  it  was  ;  but  John  thinks  red  hair  so  ugly.” 

“  Perhaps  it  will  be  the  color  of  yours,  and  that  will  please 
him.” 

“  He  used  to  call  mine  pretty,”  she  said  ;  and,  taking  it  down, 
laid  it  on  the  baby’s  head,  and  compared  it,  with  the  greatest 
apparent  interest.  While  thus  engaged,  the  coach  drew  up  at 
the  gate.  “Oh,  it  is  he! — it  is  he  !”  she  cried  ;  and,  placing 
the  baby  in  my  arms,  wound  back  her  long  hair,  and  flew  to 
meet  him,  as  though  the  heavens  were  opening  before  her. 

“Why,  Nell,”  I  heard  him  say,  as  he  assisted  her  up  stairs, 
“  you  have  grown  old  and  ugly  since  I  left.” 

The  tone  was  playful,  but  she  replied,  “  Oh,  John  !”  in  a 
reproachful  accent  that  indicated  a  deeply  felt  meaning. 

“And  where  did  you  learn  this  style  of  arranging  your  hair”? 
Is  it  by  good  mother  Widdleton’s  suggestion  ?  Really,  it  is  not 
becoming — it  is  positively  shocking ;  and  red  hair  requires  the 
most  careful  dressing  to  make  it  endurable.” 

She  tried  to  laugh  as  she  entered  the  room,  and  said  to  me, 
“  Do  n’t  you  think  John  is  finding  fault  with  me  already  !  but, 
never  mind,  I’ll  find  fault  with  him  one  of  these  days.” 


UNCLE  WILLIAM’S. 


167 


“I  dare  say,  my  dear,  you  will  have  cause,”  he  answered, 
half  seriously,  half  laughingly ;  and,  putting  her  arms  about  his 
neck,  she  kissed  him  as  fondly  as  though  he  had  said  she  was 
looking  young  and  beautiful.  “  Oh,  the  baby  !”  she  suddenly 
exclaimed.  “  Why,  John,  you  haven’t  seen  him  !” 

“  Do  n’t,  my  dear,  make  yourself  ridiculous,”  he  whispered, 

“  but  introduce  the  lady,  and  then  go  and  arrange  your  hair  : 
there  is  time  enough  to  see  the  baby.” 

I  rose  to  go,  as  I  would  have  done  sooner  but  for  my  little  • 
charge  ;  but  the  Hevelyns  insisted  so  much  on  my  remaining, 
that  I  was  forced  to  sit  down.  The  mother  kept  smiling,  but 
tears  seemed  ready  to  fall ;  and  I  placed  the  child  in  the  father’s 
arms,  and  said,  “See,  how  like  you  he  is  !” 

“  Good  gracious  !”  he  exclaimed,  turning  away  his  eyes,  “  you 
do  n’t  mean  to  say  I  look  like  this  thing  !” 

“  No,  not  quite,”  I  said,  laughing  ;  “  not  so  well.” 

“  And  you  call  this  boy  mine,  do  you  ?”  he  said  to  Ins  wife ; 

“  red  hair,  and  blue  eyes,  and  ugly  in  every  way.  Why,  his 
hand  is  as  big  as  a  wood-chopper’s.”  And  he  held  up  his  own, 
which  was  delicate  and  beautiful. 

“  Now,  John,  dear,  he  does  look  like  you,  and  Mrs.  Widdleton, 
too,  says  he  does.”  And  to  prove  the  resemblance  she  brought  a 
picture  of  her  husband,  saying  I  might  trace  the  resemblance 
more  readily  from  that. 

“Ah,  Nelly,”  he  said,  putting  it  aside,  “that  never  looked 
like  me.”  And  to  me  he  added,  “  You  see  it  was  painted  when 
I  found  that  I  had  to  marry  Nell ;  and  no  wonder  I  looked  woe¬ 
begone  !” 

I  took  up  a  book  of  engravings,  and,  laying  down  the  child,  he 
turned  over  the  leaves  for  me. 

“  I  am  so  faint !”  said  the  wife,  putting  her  hand  to  her  fore¬ 
head.  “  What  shall  I  do,  John  ?” 

“  Oh,  I  do  n’t  know,”  he  answered,  without  looking  toward 
her  ;  “  get  some  water,  or  lie  down,  or  something.” 

1  gave  her  some  water,  and,  seating  her  in  the  arm-chair,  re¬ 
turned  to  the  book,  that  I  might  not  appear  to  notice  her  emotion. 
She  turned  her  back  toward  us  with  a  pretence  of  rocking  the 


168 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


cradle,  but,  in  reality,  to  conceal  inevitable  tears.  Mr.  Hevelyn 
saw  it,  his  conscience  smote  him,  and,  stooping  over  her,  he 
kissed  her  forehead,  and  smoothed  her  hair,  saying,  with  real  or 
affected  fondness,  “You  know,  dear,  I  was  only  jesting.”  And 
she  was  pacified,  and  smiled  again.  The  next  morning  the 
strange  gentleman  took  the  coach  ;  he  could  not  stay  longer,  the 
wife  said  ;  and  other  lonesome  days  came  and  went. 

One  wild  March  morning,  when  the  snow  blew  blindingly 
against  the  windows,  little  Peter  Widdleton  came  running  in  with 
great  haste.  Mrs.  Hevelyn’s  baby  was  very  sick,  and  she  wanted 
me  to  come.  I  found,  on  arriving  at  her  room,  that  it  had  not 
seemed  well  for  several  days,  and  that  the  previous  night  it  had 
grown  seriously  worse,  and  that  then  the  most  alarming  symp¬ 
toms  were  visible.  She  had  written  every  day  to  her  husband, 
she  told  me,  and  as  he  neither  came  nor  wrote,  she  was  terri¬ 
fied  on  his  account,  though  it  was  possible  her  letters  might  have 
been  miscarried.  Dear,  credulous  soul  !  The  morning  coach 
went  by,  and  the  evening  coach  went  by,  and  he  came  not ;  and 
all  the  while  the  child  grew  worse.  Mrs.  Middleton’s  skill  was 
baffled  ;  and  as  the  mother  rocked  the  little  sufferer  on  her 
bosom,  and  said,  “  What  shall  I  do  !  oh,  what  shall  I  do  !”  I 
forgot  all  the  words  of  comfort  I  had  ever  known. 

Poor  baby  !  its  little  hands  clinging  tightly  to  the  mother’s,  it 
lay  all  day  ;  but  at  nightfall  it  sunk  into  slumber,  and,  though 
its  mother  kissed  it  a  thousand  times,  it  did  not  wake  any  more. 
It  was  piteous  to  see  her  grief  when  we  put  it  down  in  the  snow, 
and  left  it  with  the  March  winds  making  its  lullaby. 

After  the  burial,  Mrs.  Hevelyn  lost  the  little  energy  that  had 
kept  her  up  before,  and  sat  without  speaking  all  the  day.  She 
seemed  to  have  lost  every  interest  in  life. 

We  were  sitting  around  the  fire  one  night,  eight  or  ten  days 
after  the  baby  died,  when  Mrs.  Widdleton  came  bustling  in  to 
tell  us  that  Mrs.  Hevelyn  was  gone  ;  that  her  husband  had 
written  her  to  join  him  without  a  moment’s  delay  ;  that  he  had 
not  sent  her  one  cent  of  money,  nor  in  any  way  made  provision 
for  her  to  go.  “  But  for  all  that,”  said  our  neighbor,  “  she  was 
nearly  crazy  to  go,  and  the  letter  really  made  her  a  deal  better 


UNCLE  WILLIAM'S. 


1G9 


She  gave- my  Liddy  most  of  her  clothes,  partly  by  way  of  paying, 
I  suppose — for  you  see  she  had  no  money — all  but  her  wedding- 
dress  ;  that,  she  said,  she  should  need  before  long  and  the  kind 
woman,  taking  up  one  of  the  cats,  hugged  it  close  by  way  of 
keeping  down  her  emotion.  Ah  well,”  she  added,  presently, 
“  she  has  n’t  much  to  care  to  live  for,  I  am  afraid.” 

IV. 

When  our  excellent  neighbor  had  completed  the  narrative  re¬ 
specting  her  late  guest,  and  bestowed  fit  tributes  on  the  respec¬ 
tive  characters  of  the  wife  and  the  husband,  she  sat  a  moment  in 
profound  silence,  and  then,  as  if  she  had  said  Be  gone  !  to  all 
gloomy  recollections,  her  face  resumed  its  wonted  glow,  and  her 
eyes  sparkled  with  secrets  until  now  suppressed,  and  at  the 
thoughts  of  surprise  and  consternation  she  was  likely  to  introduce 
into  my  uncle’s  family — surprise  and  consternation  in  no  degree 
associated  with  real  evil,  or  the  good  woman  would  have  been 
the  last  being  in  the  world  to  feel  a  satisfaction  in  their  creation 
or  anticipation.  Suddenly  interrupting  the  third  perusal  of  the 
leading  article  in  the  week’s  “  Republican,”  she  said,  “  Did  you 
know,  Old  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Courtney  move  to  town  to-day.” 

“  Do  tell,”  said  uncle  William,  looking  very  much  pleased,  “  I 
wonder  what  they  are  going  to  do  with  their  house  ?” 

“  Well,  I  hardly  know,”  replied  Mrs.  Widdleton,  locking  slyly 
at  me  ;  “  some  say  one  thing  and  some  say  another ;  but  I  have 
my  own  thoughts.  I  do  n’t  think  Edward  Courtney  went  to 
B -  for  nothing;  and  I  do  n’t  think  he  will  come  back  with¬ 

out  a  certain  little  woman,  whose  name  begins  with  Delia,  for  a 
wife.” 

Cousin  Jane  dropped  half  the  stitches  off  one  needle,  and  uncle 
\\  illiam  opened  the  paper  so  suddenly  that  he  tore  it,  which  he 
said  he  would  not  have  done  for  a  fip  ;  and  he  forgot  what  quar¬ 
ter  the  moon  was  in,  and,  on  being  questioned,  said  he  did  n’t 
know  as  he  cared. 

Mrs.  Widdleton  was  right;  for  the  next  evening  I  went  with 
her  to  call  on  the  bride,  my  friend  carrying  with  her  a  custard- 
pie  and  a  loaf  of  plum-cake.  We  found  the  happy  pair  taking 

8 


170 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


tea  at  a  little  table,  with  their  faces  glowing  with  sympathetic 
devotion  ;  and  when  last  I  saw  them  they  were  as  happy  as 
then — lovers  yet,  though  they  had  been  married  a  dozen  years. 

A  year  after  my  visit  I  heard,  by  chance,  that  Mrs.  Hevelyn 
was  dead,  and  the  fragment  of  her  life  and  love  that  I  have 
written,  is  all  I  know. 


UNCLE  CHRISTOPHER’S, 


171 


> 


UNCLE  CHRISTOPHER’S. 

I. 

The  night  was  intensely  cold,  but  not  dismal,  for  all  the  hills 
and  meadows,  all  the  steep  roofs  of  the  farm-houses,  and  the 
black  roofs  of  the  barns,  were  white  as  snow  could  make  them. 
The  haystacks  looked  like  high,  smooth  heaps  of  snow,  and  the 
fences,  in  their  zigzag  course  across  the  fields,  seemed  made  of 
snow  too,  and  half  the  trees  had  their  limbs  encrusted  with  the 
pure  white. 

Through  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  between  banks  out  of 
which  it  seemed  to  have  been  cut,  ran  a  path,  hard  and  blue 
and  icy,  and  so  narrow  that  only  two  horses  could  move  in  it 
abreast ;  and  almost  all  the  while  I  could  hear  the  merry  music 
of  bells,  or  the  clear  and  joyous  voices  of  sleigh  riders,  ex¬ 
ultant  in  the  frosty  and  sparkling  air. 

"With  his  head  pushed  under  the  curtain  of  the  window  next 
the  road,  so  that  his  face  touched  the  glass,  stood  my  father, 
watching  with  as  much  interest,  the  things  without,  as  I  the 
pictures  in  the  fire.  His  hands  were  thrust  deep  in  his  pockets  ; 
both  his  vest  and  coat  hung  loosely  open  ;  and  so  for  a  half 
hour  he  had  stood,  dividing  my  musings  with  joyous  exclama¬ 
tions  as  the  gay  riders  went  by,  singly,  or  in  companies.  Now 
it  was  a  sled  running  over  with  children  that  he  told  me  of; 
now  an  old  man  and  woman  wrapt  in  a  coverlid  and  driving 
one  poor  horse ;  and  now  a  bright  sleigh  with  fine  horses,  jingling 
bells,  and  a  troop  of  merry  young  folks.  Then  again  he  called 
out,  “There  goes  a  spider-legged  thing  that  I  wouldn’t  ride  in,” 
and  this  remark  I  knew  referred  to  one  of  those  contrivances 
which  are  gotten  up  on  the  spur  of  a  moment,  and  generally 
after  the  snow  begins  to  fall,  consisting  of  two  limber  saplings 


172  OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 

on  which  a  seat  is  fixed,  and  which  serve  for  runners,  fills, 
and  all. 

It  was  not  often  we  had  such  a  deep  snow  as  this,  and  it 
carried  the  thoughts  of  my  father  away  back  to  his  boyhood, 
for  he  had  lived  among  the  mountains  then,  and  been  used  to 
the  hardy  winters  which  keep  their  empire  nearly  half  the  year. 
Turning  from  the  window,  he  remarked,  at  length,  “This  is  a 
nice  time  to  go  to  Uncle  Christopher’s,  or  some  where.” 

“Yes,”  I  said,  “  it  would  be  a  nice  time  ;”  but  I  did  not  think 
so,  all  the  while,  for  the  snow  and  I  were  never  good  friends.  I 
knew,  however,  that  my  father  would  like  above  all  things  to 
visit  Uncle  Christopher,  and  that,  better  still,  though  he  did  not 
like  to  own  it,  he  would  enjoy  the  sleighing. 

“I  want  to  see  Uncle  Christopher  directly,”  he  continued, 
“  about  getting  some  spring  wheat  to  sow.” 

“  It  is  very  cold,”  I  said,  “  is  n’t  it  ?”  I  really  could  n’t  help 
the  question. 

“  Just  comfortably  so,”  he  answered,  moving  back  from  the 
fire. 

Two  or  three  times  I  tried  to  say,  “  Suppose  we  go,”  but  the 
words  were  difficult,  and  not  till  he  had  said,  “  Nobody  ever 
wants  to  go  with  me  to  Uncle  Christopher’s,  nor  anywhere,”  did 
I  respond,  heartily,  “  Oh,  yes,  father,  I  want  to  go.” 

In  a  minute  afterwards,  I  heard  him  giving  directions  about 
the  sleigh  and  horses. 

“  I  am  afraid,  sir,  you  ’ll  find  it  pretty  cold,”  replied  Billy,  as 
he  rose  to  obey. 

“  I  do  n’t  care  about  going  myself,”  continued  my  father, 
apologetically,  “  but  my  daughter  has  taken  a  fancy  to  a  ride, 
and  so  1  must  oblige  her.” 

A  few  minutes,  and  a  pair  of  handsome,  well-kept  horses 
were  champing  the  bit,  and  pawing  the  snow  at  the  door,  while 
shawls,  mittens,  &c.,  were  warmed  at  the  fire.  It  was  hard  to 
see  the  bright  coals  smothered  under  the  ashes,  and  the  chairs 
set  away  ;  but  1  forced  a  smile  to  my  lips,  and  as  my  father 
said  “  Ready  ?”  I  answered  “  Ready,”  and  the  door  closed  on 
the  genial  atmosphere — the  horses  stepped  forward  and  back¬ 
ward,  flung  their  heads  up  and  down,  curved  their  necks  to  the 


i 


UNCLE  CHRISTOPHER’S. 


m 


tightening  rein,  and  we  were  off.  The  fates  be  praised,  it  is  not 
to  do  again.  All  the  shawls  and  muffs  in  Christendom  could 
not  avail  against  such  a  night — so  still,  clear,  and  intensely 
cold.  The  very  stars  seemed  sharpened  against  the  ice,  and 
the  white  moonbeams  slanted  earthward,  and  pierced  our  faces 
like  thorns — I  think  they  had  substance  that  night,  and  were 
stiff ;  and  the  thickest  veil,  doubled  twice  or  thrice,  was  less 
than  gossamer,  and  yet  the  wind  did  not  blow,  even  so  much 
as  to  stir  one  flake  of  snow  from  the  bent  boughs. 

At  first  we  talked  with  some  attempts  at  mirth,  but  sobered 
presently  and  said  little,  as  we  glided  almost  noiselessly  along 
the  hard  and  smooth  road.  We  had  gone,  perhaps,  five  miles 
to  the  northward,  when  we  turned  from  the  paved  and  level 
way  into  a  narrow  lane,  or  neighborhood  road,  as  it  was  called, 
seeming  to  me  hilly  and  winding  and  wild,  for  I  had  never  been 
there  before.  The  track  was  not  so  well  worn,  but  my  father 
pronounced  it  better  than  that  we  had  left,  and  among  the 
stumps  and  logs,  and  between  hills  and  over  hills,  now  through 
thick  woods,  and  now  through  openings,  we  went  crushing  along. 
We  passed  a  few  cabins  and  old-fashioned  houses,  but  not 
many,  and  the  distances  between  them  grew  greater  and  greater, 
and  there  were  many  fields  and  many  dark  patches  of  woods 
between  the  lights.  Every  successive  habitation  I  hoped  would 
terminate  our  journey — our  pleasure,  1  should  have  said — yet 
still  we  went  on,  and  on. 

“  Is  it  much  farther  V  1  asked,  at  length. 

“  Oh,  no — only  four  or  five  miles,”  replied  my  father  ;  and 
he  added,  “  Why,  are  you  getting  cold  ?” 

“  Not  much,”  I  said,  putting  my  hand  to  my  face  to  ascertain 
that  it  was  not  frozen. 

At  last  we  turned  into  a  lane,  narrower,  darker,  and  more 
lonesome  still — edged  with  woods  on  either  side,  and  leading 
up  and  up  and  up  farther  than  I  could  see.  No  path  had  been 
previously  broken,  and  the  horses  sunk  knee  deep  at  every  step, 
their  harness  tightening  as  they  strained  forward,  and  their 
steamy  breath  drifting  back,  and  freezing  stiff  my  veil.  At  the 
summit  the  way  was  interrupted  by  a  cross  fence,  and  a  gate 
was  to  be  opened — a  heavy  thing,  painted  red,  and  fastened 


174 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


with  a  chain.  It  had  been  well  secured,  for  after  half  an  hour’s 
attempts  to  open  it,  we  found  ourselves  defied. 

“I  guess  we ’ll  have  to  leave  the  horses  and  walk  to  the 
house,”  said  my  father  ;  “it ’s  only  a  little  step.” 

I  felt  terrible  misgivings  ;  the  gate  opened  into  an  orchard  ; 
I  could  see  no  house,  and  the  deep  snow  lay  all  unbroken  ;  but 
there  was  no  help  ;  I  must  go  forward  as  best  I  could,  or  remain 
and  freeze.  It  was  difficult  to  choose,  but  I  decided  to  go  on. 
In  some  places  the  snow  was  blown  aside,  and  we  walked  a 
few  steps  on  ground  almost  bare,  but  in  the  end  high  drifts  met 
us,  through  which  we  could  scarcely  press  our  way.  In  a  little 
while  we  began  to  descend,  and  soon,  abruptly,  in  a  nook  shel¬ 
tered  by  trees,  and  higher  hills,  I  saw  a  curious  combination  of 
houses — brick,  wood,  and  stone — and  a  great  gray  barn,  looking 
desolate  enough  in  the  moonlight,  though  about  it  stood  half  a 
dozen  of  inferior  size.  But  another  and  a  more  cheerful  indi¬ 
cation  of  humanity  attracted  me.  On  the  brink  of  the  hill 
stood  two  persons  with  a  small  hand-sled  between  them,  which 
they  seemed  to  have  just  drawn  up;  in  the  imperfect  light, 
they  appeared  to  be  mere  youths,  the  youngest  not  more  than 
ten  or  twelve  years  of  age.  Their  laughter  rang  on  the  cold 
air,  and  our  approach,  instead  of  checking,  seemed  to  increase 
their  mirth. 

“  Laugh,  Mark,  laugh,”  said  the  taller  of  the  two,  as  we 
drew  near,  “  so  they  will  see  our  path — they  ’re  going  right 
through  the  deep  snow.” 

But  in  stead,  the  little  fellow  stepped  manfully  forward,  and 
directed  us  into  the  track  broken  by  their  sleds. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  we  came  upon  the  medley  of  buildings, 
so  incongruous  that  they  might  have  been  blown  together  by 
chance.  Light  appeared  in  the  windows  of  that  portion  which 
was  built  of  stone,  but  we  heard  no  sound,  and  the  snow  about 
the  door  had  not  been  disturbed  since  its  fall.  “  And  this,” 
said  I,  “is  where  Uncle  Christopher  Wright  lives'?” 

A  black  dog,  with  yellow  spots  under  his  eyes,  stood  sud¬ 
denly  before  us,  and  growled  so  forbiddingly  that  we  drew 
back. 

“  He  will  not  bite,”  said  the  little  boy ;  for  the  merry 


UNCLE  CHRISTOPHER’S. 


175 

makers  had  landed  on  their  sled  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and 
followed  us  to  the  door  ;  and  in  a  moment  the  larger  youth 
dashed  past  us,  seized  the  dog  by  the  fore  paws,  and  dragged 
him  violently  aside,  snarling  and  whimpering  all  the  time. 
“  Haven’t  you  got  no  more  sense,”  he  exclaimed,  “  than  to 
bark  so  at  a  gentleman  and  ladies  V 

II. 

In  answer  to  our  quick  rap,  the  door  opened  at  once,  and  the 
circle  about  the  great  blazing  log  fire  was  broken  by  a  general 
rising.  The  group  consisted  of  eight  persons — one  man  and 
seven  women ;  the  women  so  closely  resembling  each  other, 
that  one  could  not  tell  them  apart;  not  even  the  mother  from  the 
daughters — for  she  appeared  as  young  as  the  oldest  of  them — 
except  by  her  cap  and  spectacles.  All  the  seven  were  very 
slender,  very  straight,  and  very  tall ;  all  had  dark  complexions, 
black  eyes,  low  foreheads,  straight  noses,  and  projecting  teeth ; 
and  all  were  dressed  precisely  alike,  in  gowns  of  brown  flannel, 
and  coarse  leather  boots,  with  blue  woollen  stockings,  and  small 
capes,  of  red  and  yellow  calico.  The  six  daughters  were  all 
marriageable ;  at  least  the  youngest  of  them  was.  They  had 
staid,  almost  severe,  expressions  of  countenances,  and  scarcely 
spoke  during  the  evening.  By  one  corner  of  the  great  fire¬ 
place  they  huddled  together,  each  busy  with  knitting,  and  all 
occupied  with  long  blue  stockings,  advanced  in  nearly  similar 
degrees  toward  completion.  Now  and  then  they  said  “  Yes, 
ma’m,”  or  “  No  main,”  when  I  spoke  to  them,  but  never  or 
very  rarely  any  thing  more.  As  I  said,  Mrs.  Wright  differed 
from  her  daughters  in  appearance,  only  in  that  she  wore  a  cap 
and  spectacles ;  but  she  was  neither  silent  nor  ill  at  ease  as 
they  were ;  on  the  contrary,  she  industriously  filled  up  all  the 
little  spaces  unoccupied  by  her  good  man  in  the  conversation; 
she  set  off  his  excellencies,  as  a  frame  does  a  picture  ;  and 
before  we  were  even  seated,  she  expressed  her  delight  that  we 
had  come  when  “  Christopher”  was  at  home,  as,  owing  to  his 
gift,  he  was  much  abroad. 

Uncle  Christopher  was  a  tall  muscular  man  of  sixty  or  there¬ 
abouts,  dressed  in  what  might  be  termed  stylish  homespun 


176 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


coat,  trowsers  and  waistcoat,  of  snuff-colored  cloth.  His  cravat 
was  of  red-and-white-checked  gingham,  but  it  was  quite  hidden 
under  his  long  grizzly  beard,  which  he  wore  in  full,  this  .pecu¬ 
liarity  being  a  part  of  his  religion.  His  hair  was  of  the  same 
color,  combed  straight  from  his  forehead,  and  turned  over 
in  one  even  curl  on  the  back  of  the  neck.  Heavy  gray  eye¬ 
brows  met  over  a  hooked  nose,  and  deep  in  his  head  twinkled 
two  little  blue  eyes,  which  seemed  to  say,  “lam  delighted 
with  myself,  and,  of  course,  you  are  with  me.”  Between  his 
knees  he  held  a  stout  hickory  stick,  on  which,  occasionally, 
when  he  had  settled  something  beyond  the  shadow  of  doubt, 
he  rested  his  chin  for  a  moment,  and  enjoyed  the  triumph.  He 
rose  on  our  entrance,  for  he  had  been  seated  beside  a  small 

s 

table,  where  he  monopolized  a  good  portion  of  the  light,  and 
all  the  warmth,  and  having  shaken  hands  with  my  father  and 
welcomed  him  in  a  long  and  pompous  speech,  during  which  the 
good  wife  bowed  her  head,  and  listened  as  to  an  oracle,  he 
greeted  me  in  the  same  way,  saying,  “  This,  I  suppose,  is 
the  virgin  who  abideth  still  in  the  house  with  you.  She  is 
not  given,  I  hope,  to  gadding  overmuch,  nor  to  vain  and  fool¬ 
ish  decorations  of  her  person  with  ear-rings  and  finger-rings, 
and  crisping-pins :  for  such  are  unprofitable,  yea,  abominable. 
My  daughter,  consider  it  well,  and  look  upon  it,  and  receive 
instruction.”  I  was  about  replying,  1  don’t  know  what,  when 
he  checked  me  by  saying,  “Much  speech  in  a  woman  is  as 
the  crackling  of  thorns  under  a  pot.  Open  rebuke,”  he  con¬ 
tinued,  “  is  better  than  secret  love.”  Then  pointing  with  his 
cane  in  the  direction  of  the  six  girls,  he  said,  “  Rise,  maidens, 
and  salute  your  kinswoman  ;”  and  as  they  stood  up,  pointing 
to  each  with  his  stick,  he  called  their  names,  beginning  with 
Abagail,  eldest  of  the  daughters  of  Rachael  Wright  and  Chris¬ 
topher  Wright,  and  ending  with  Lucinda,  youngest  born  of 
Rachael  Wright  and  Christopher  Wright.  Each,  as  she  was 
referred  to,  made  a  quick  ungraceful  curtsy,  and  resumed  her 
seat  and  her  knitting. 

A  half  hour  afterward,  seeing  that  we  remained  silent,  the 
father  said,  by  way  of  a  gracious  permission  of  conversation,  I 
suppose,  “A  little  talk  of  flax  and  wool,  and  of  household  dili- 


UNCLE  CHRISTOPHER'S. 


177 


gence,  would  not  ill  become  the  daughters  of  our  house.”  Upon 
hearing  this,  Lucinda,  who,  her  mother  remarked,  had  the 
“  liveliest  turn  ”  of  any  of  the  girls,  asked  me  if  I  liked  to 
knit;  to  which  I  answered,  “  Yes,”  and  added,  “Is  it  a  favor¬ 
ite  occupation  with  you  V'  she  replied,  “Yes  ma’m,”  and  after 
a  long  silence,  inquired  how  many  cows  we  milked,  and  at  the 
end  of  another  pause,  whether  we  had  colored  our  flannel  brown 
or  blue;  if  we  had  gathered  many  hickory  nuts  ;  if  our  apples 
were  keeping  well,  etc. 

The  room  in  which  we  sat  was  large,  with  a  low  ceiling, 
and  bare  floor,  and  so  open  about  the  windows  and  doors,  that 
the  slightest  movement  of  the  air  without  would  keep  the 
candle  flame  in  motion,  and  chill  those  who  were  not  sitting 
nearest  the  fire,  which  blazed  and  crackled  and  roared  in  the 
chimney.  Uncle  Christopher,  as  my  father  had  always  called 
him  (though  he  was  uncle  so  many  degrees  removed  that  I 
never  exactly  knew  the  relationship),  laid  aside  the  old  volume 
from  which  he  had  been  reading,  removed  the  two  pairs  of 
spectacles  he  had  previously  worn,  and  hung  them,  by  leather 
strings  connecting  their  bows,  on  a  nail  in  the  stone  jamb  by 
which  he  sat,  and  talked,  and  talked  ;  and  talked,  and  I  soon 
discovered  by  his  conversation,  aided  by  the  occasional  explan¬ 
atory  whispers  of  his  wife,  that  he  was  one  of  those  infatuated 
men  who  fancy  themselves  “  called  ”  to  be  teachers  of  religion, 
though  he  had  neither  talents,  education,  nor  anything  else  to 
warrant  such  a  notion,  except  a  faculty  for  joining  pompous  and 
half  scriptural  phrases,  from  January  to  December. 

That  inward  purity  must  be  manifested  by  a  public  washing  of 
the  feet,  that  it  was  a  sin  to  shave  the  beard,  and  an  abomination 
for  a  man  to  be  hired  to  preach,  were  his  doctrines,  I  believe, 
and  much  time  and  some  money  he  spent  in  their  vindication. 
From  neighborhood  to  neighborhood  he  traveled,  now  entering 
a  blacksmith’s  shop  and  delivering  a  homily,  now  debating  with 
the  boys  in  the  cornfield,  and  now  obtruding  into  some  church, 
where  peaceable  worshippers  were  assembled,  with  intima¬ 
tions  that  they  had  “broken  teeth,  and  feet  out  of  joint,”  that 
they  were  “  like  cold  and  snow  in  the  time  of  harvest,  yea,  worse, 
even  as  pot-sheds  covered  with  silver  dross.”  And  such  ex- 

8* 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


17S 

hortations  he  often  concluded  by  quoting  the  passage  :  “  Though 
thou  shouldst  bray  a  fool  in  a  mortar  among  wheat,  with  a 
postle,  yet  will  not  his  foolishness  depart  from  him.” 

More  than  half  an  hour  elapsed  before  the  youths  whose 
sliding  down  the  hill  had  been  interrupted  by  us,  entered  the 
house.  Their  hands  and  faces  were  red  and  stiffened  with  the 
cold,  yet  they  kept  shyly  away  from  the  fire,  and  no  one 
noticed  or  made  room  for  them.  Both  interested  me  at  once, 
and  partly,  perhaps,  that  they  seemed  to  interest  nobody  else. 
The  taller  was  not  so  young  as  I  at  first  imagined  ;  he  was  un¬ 
graceful,  shambling,  awkward,  and  possessed  one  of  those  clean, 
pinky  complexions  which  look  so  youthful ;  his  hair  was  yellow, 
his  eyes  small  and  blue,  with  an  unquiet  expression,  and  his 
hands  and  feet  inordinately  large  ;  and  when  he  spoke,  it  was 
to  the  boy  who  sat  on  a  low1  stool  beside  him,  in  a  whisper, 
which  he  evidently  meant  to  be  inaudible  to  others,  but  which 
was,  nevertheless,  quite  distinct  to  me.  He  seemed  to  exercise 
a  kind  of  brotherly  care  over  the  boy,  but  he  did  not  speak, 
nor  move,  nor  look  up,  nor  look  down,  nor  turn  aside,  nor  sit 
still,  without  an  air  of  the  most  wretched  embarrassment.  I 
should  not  have  written  “  sit  still,”  for  he  changed  his  position 
continually,  and  each  time  his  face  grew  crimson,  and,  to  cover 
his  confusion,  as  it  were,  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  large  silk 
handkerchief,  rubbed  his  lips,  and  replaced  it,  at  the  same  time 
moving  and  screwing  and  twisting  the  toe  of  his  boot  in  every 
direction. 

I  felt  glad  of  his  attention  to  the  boy,  for  he  seemed  silent 
and  thoughtful  beyond  his  years  ;  perhaps  he  was  lonesome,  I 
thought ;  certainly  he  was  not  happy,  for  he  leaned  his  chin  on 
his  hand,  which  w^as  cracked  and  bleeding,  and  now  and  then 
when  his  companion  ceased  to  speak,  the  tears  gathered  to  his 
eyes;  but  he  seemed  willing  to  be  pleased,  and  brushed  the 
tears  off  his  face  and  smiled,  when  the  young  man  laid  his 
great  hand  on  his  head,  and,  shaking  it  roughly,  said,  “  Mark, 
Mark,  Marky  !” 

“  I  can’t  help  thinking  about  the  money,”  said  the  boy,  at 
last,  “  and  how  many  new  things  it  would  have  bought :  just 
think  of  it,  Andrew  !” 


UNCLE  CHRISTOPHER'S. 


179 


“How  Towser  did  bark  at  them  people,  didn’t  he,  Mark?” 
said  Andrew,  not  heeding  what  had  been  said  to  him. 

“All  new  things!”  murmured  the  boy,  sorrowfully,  glancing 
at  his  patched  trowsers  and  ragged  shoes. 

“  In  three  days  it  will  be  New-Year’s  ;  and  then,  Mark,  won’t 
we  have  fun  !”  and  Andrew  rubbed  his  huge  hands  together,  in 
glee,  at  the  prospect. 

“  It  won’t  be  no  fun  as  I  know  of,”  replied  the  boy. 

“May  be  the  girls  will  bake,  some  cakes,”  said  Andrew, 
turning  red,  and  looking  sideways  at  the  young  women. 

Mark  laughed,  and,  looking  up,  he  recognized  the  interested 
look  with  which  I  regarded  him,  and  from  that  moment  we 
were  friends. 

At  the  sound  of  laughter,  Uncle  Christopher  struck  his  cane 
on  the  floor,  and  looking  sternly  toward  the  offenders,  said, 
“A  whip  for  the  horse,  a  bridle  for  the  ass,  and  a  rod  for  the 
fool’s  back  !”  leaving  to  them  the  application,  which  they  made, 
1  suppose,  for  they  became  silent — the  younger  dropping  his 
chin  in  his  hands  again,  and  the  elder  twisting  the  toe  of  his 
boot,  and  using  his  handkerchief  very  freely. 

I  thought  we  should  never  go  home,  for  I  soon  tired  of  Uncle 
Christopher’s  conversation,  and  of  Aunt  Rachael’s  continual 
allusions  to  his  “gift;”  he  was  evidently  regarded  by  her  as 
not  only  the  man  of  the  house,  but  also  as  the  man  of  all  the 
-  world.  The  six  voung  women  had  knitted  their  six  blue 
stockings  from  the  heel  to  the  toe,  and  had  begun  precisely  at 
the  same  time  to  taper  them  off,  with  six  little  white  balls  of 
yarn. 

The  clock  struck  eleven,  and  I  ventured,  timidly,  to  suggest 
my  wish  to  return  home.  Mark,  who  sat  drowsily  in  his  chair, 
looked  at  me  beseechingly,  and  when  Aunt  Rachael  said,  “Tut, 
tut!  you  are  not  going  home  to-night!”  he  laughed  again, 
despite  the  late  admonition.  All  the  six  young  women  also 
said,  “You  can  stay  just  as  well  as  not;”  and  I  felt  as  if!  were 
to  be  imprisoned,  and  began  urging  the  impossibility  of  doing 
so,  when  Uncle  Christopher  put  an  end  to  remonstrance  by 
exclaiming,  “It  is  better  to  dwell  in  the  corner  of  the  house¬ 
top,  than  with  a  brawling  woman,  and  in  a  wide  house.”  It 


180 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


was  soon  determined  that  T  should  remain,  not  only  for  the 
night,  but  'till  the  weather  grew  warmer  ;  and  I  can  feel  now 
something  of  the  pang  I  experienced  when  I  heard  the  horses 
snorting  on  their  homeward  way,  after  the  door  had  closed 
upon  me. 

“  I  am  glad  you  didn’t  get  to  go !”  whispered  Mark,  close  to 
me,  favored  by  a  slight  confusion  induced  by  the  climbing  of 
the  six  young  ladies  upon  six  chairs,  to  hang  over  six  lines, 
attached  to  the  rafters,  the  six  stockings. 

There  was  no  variableness  in  the  order  of  things  at  Uncle 
Christopher’s,  but  all  went  regularly  forward  without  even  a 
casual  observation,  and  to  see  one  day,  was  to  see  the  entire 
experience  in  the  family. 

“  He  has  a  great  gift  in  prayer,”  said  Aunt  Rachael,  pulling 
my  sleeve,  as  the  hour  for  worship  arrived. 

I  did  not  then,  nor  can  I  to  this  day,  agree  with  her.  I  would 
not  treat  such  matters  with  levity,  and  will  not  repeat  the  for¬ 
mula  which  this  “  gifted  man  ”  went  over  morning  and  evening, 
but  he  did  not  fail  on  each  occasion  to  make  known  to  the  All- 
Wise  the  condition  in  which  matters  stood,  and  to  assure  him, 
that  he  himself  was  doing  a  great  deal  for  their  better  manage¬ 
ment  in  the  future.  It  was  not  so  much  a  prayer  as  an  an¬ 
nouncement  of  the  latest  intelligence,  even  to  “  the  visit  of 
his  kinswoman  who  was  still  detained  by  the  severity  of  the 
elements.” 

It  was  through  the  exercise  of  his  wonderful  gift,  that  I  first 
learned  the  histories  of  Andrew  and  Mark  ;  that  the  former 
was  a  relation  from  the  interior  of  Indiana,  who,  for  feeding  and 
milking  Uncle  Christopher’s  cows  morning  and  evening,  and  the 
general  oversight  of  affairs,  when  the  great  man  was  abroad, 
enjoyed  the  privilege  of  attending  the  district  school  in  the 
neighborhood  ;  and  that  the  latter  was  the  “  son  of  his  son,”  a 
“  wicked  and  troublesome  boy,  for  the  present  subjected  to  the 
chastening  influences  of  a  righteous  discipline.” 

As  a  mere  matter  of  form,  Uncle  Christopher  always  said,  l 
will  do  so  or  so,  “  Providence  permitting  but  he  felt  compe¬ 
tent  to  do  anything  and  everything  on  his  own  account,  to  11  the 
drawing  out  of  the  Leviathan  with  an  hook,  or  his  tongue  with 


UNCLE  CHRISTOPHER’S. 


18 1 


a  cord — to  the  putting  a  hook  into  his  nose,  or  the  boring  his 
jaw  through  with  a  thorn.” 

“I  believe  it’s  getting  colder,”  said  Andrew,  as  he  opened 
the  door  of  the  stairway,  darkly  winding  over  the  great  oven,  to  a 
low  chamber  ;  and,  chuckling,  he  disappeared.  He  was  pleased, 
as  a  child  w'ould  be,  with  the  novelty  of  a  visitor,  and  perhaps 
half  believed  it  was  colder,  because  he  hoped  it  was  so.  Mark 
gave  me  a  smile  as  he  sidled  past  his  grandfather,  and  disap¬ 
peared  within  the  smoky  avenue.  We  had  scarcely  spoken 
together,  but  somehow  he  had  recognized  the  kindly  disposition 
I  felt  toward  him. 

As  I  lay  awake,  among  bags  of  meal  and  flour,  boxes  of 
hickory  nuts  and  apples,  with  heaps  of  seed,  wheat,  oats,  and 
barley,  that  filled  the  chamber  into  which  I  had  been  shown — 
cold,  despite  the  twenty  coverlids  heaped  over  me — I  kept 
thinking  of  little  Mark,  and  wondering  what  was  the  story  of 
the  money  he  had  referred  to.  I  could  not  reconcile  myself  to 
the  assumption  of  Uncle  Christopher  that  he  was  a  wicked  boy  ; 
and,  falling  asleep  at  last,  I  dreamed  the  hard  old  man  was 
beating  him  with  his  walking-stick,  because  the  child  was  not 
bis  enough  to  fill  his  own  snuff-colored  coat  and  trowsers.  And 
certainly  this  would  have  been  little  more  absurd  than  his  real 
effort  to  change  the  boy  into  a  man. 

There  was  yet  no  sign  of  daylight,  when  the  stir  of  the  family 
awoke  me,  and,  knowing  they  would  think  very  badly  of  me 
should  1  further  indulge  my  disposition  for  sleep,  I  began  to 
feel  in  the  darkness  for  the  various  articles  of  my  dress.  At 
length,  half  awake,  I  made  my  way  through  and  over  the  ob¬ 
structions  in  the  chamber,  to  the  room  below,  which  the  blazing 
logs  filled  with  light.  The  table  was  spread,  and  in  the  genial 
warmth  sat  Uncle  Christopher,  doing  nothing.  He  turned  his 
blue  eyes  upon  me  as  1  entered,  and  said,  “Let  a  bear  robbed 
of  her  whelps  meet  a  man,  rather  than  she  who  crieth,  A  little 
more  sleep,  and  a  little  more  slumber.” 

“Did  he  say  anything  to  you'?”  asked  Aunt  Rachael,  as  I 
entered  the  kitchen  in  search  of  a  wash-bowl.  “  It  must  have 
been  just  to  the  purpose,”  she  continued  ;  “  Christopher  always 
says  something  to  the  purpose.” 


182 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


There  was  no  bowT],  no  accommodations,  for  one’s  toilet: 
Uncle  Christopher  did  not  approve  of  useless  expenditures.  I 
was  advised  to  make  an  application  of  snow  to  my  hands  and 
face,  and  while  I  was  doing  so,  I  saw  a  light  moving  about  the 
stables,  and  heard  Andrew  say,  in  a  chuckling,  pleased  tone, 
“  B’lieve  it’s  colder,  Mark — she  can’t  go  home  to-day;  and  if 
she  is  only  here  till  New-Years,  maybe  they  will  kill  the  big 
turkey.”  I  felt,  while  melting  on  my  cheeks  the  snow,  that  it 
was  no  warmer,  and,  perhaps,  a  little  flattered  with  the  evident 
liking  of  the  young  man  and  the  boy,  I  resolved  to  make  the  best 
of  my  detention.  I  could  see  nothing  to  do,  for  seven  women 
were  already  moving  about  by  the  light  of  a  single  tallow 
candle  ;  the  pork  was  frying,  and  the  coffee  boiling  ;  the  bread 
and  butter  were  on  the  table,  and  there  was  nothing  more,  ap¬ 
parently,  to  be  accomplished.  I  dared  not  sit  down,  however, 
and  so  remained  in  the  comfortless  kitchen,  as  some  atonement 
for  my  involuntary  idleness.  At  length  the  tin-horn  was 
sounded,  and  shortly  after  Andrew  and  Mark  came  in,  and 
breakfast  was  announced  ;  in  other  words,  Aunt  Rachael  placed 
her  hand  on  her  good  man’s  chair,  and  said,  “  Come.” 

To  the  coarse  fire  before  us  we  all  helped  ourselves  in  silence, 
except  of  the  bread,  and  that  was  placed  under  the  manage¬ 
ment  of  Uncle  Christopher,  and  with  the  same  knife  he  used  in 
eating,  slices  were  cut  as  they  were  required.  The  little  courage 
I  summoned  while  alone  in  the  snow — thinking  I  might  make 
myself  useful,  and  do  something  to  occupy  my  time,  and  ob¬ 
lige  the  family — flagged  and  failed  during  that  comfortless  meal. 
My  poor  attempts  at  cheerfulness  fell  like  moonbeams  on  ice,, 
except,  indeed,  that  Andrew  and  Mark  looked  grateful. 

Several  times,  before  we  left  the  table,  I  noticed  the  cry  of  a 
kitten,  seeming  to  come  from  the  kitchen,  and  that  when  Uncle 
Christopher  turned  his  ear  in  that  direction,  Mark  looked  at 
Andrew^  who  rubbed  his  lips  more  earnestly  than  I  had  seen 
him  before. 

When  the  breakfast,  at  last,  was  ended,  the  old  man  pro¬ 
ceeded  to  search  out  the  harmless  offender,  with  the  instincts  of 
some  animal  hungry  for  blood.  I  knew  its  doom,  when  it  was 
discovered,  clinging  so  tightly  to  the  old  hat,  in  which  Mark 


UNCLE  CHRISTOPHERS. 


1S3 


had  hidden  it,  dry  and  warm,  by  the  kitchen  fire  ;  it  had  been 
better  left  in  the  cold  snow,  for  I  saw  that  the  sharp  little  eyes 
which  looked  on  it  grew  hard  as  stone. 

“Mark,”  said  Uncle  Christopher,  “into  your  hands  I  deliver 
this  unclean  beast :  there  is  an  old  well  digged  by  my  father, 
and  which  lieth  easterly  a  rod  or  more  from  the  great  barn — 
uncover  the  mouth  thereof,  and  when  you  have  borne  the  crea¬ 
ture  thither,  cast  it  down  !” 

Mark  looked  as  if  he  were  suffering  torture,  and  when,  with 
the  victim,  he  had  reached  the  door,  he  turned,  as  if  constrained 
by  pity,  and  said,  “  Can’t  it  stay  in  the  barn 

“  No,”  answered  Uncle  Christopher,  bringing  down  his  great 
stick  on  the  floor  ;  “but  you  can  stay  in  the  barn,  till  you  learn 
better  than  to  gainsay  my  judgment”  Rising,  he  pointed  in 
the  direction  of  the  well,  and  followed,  as  I  inferred,  to  see  that 
his  order  was  executed,  deigning  to  offer  neither  reason  nor 
•  explanation. 

Andrew  looked  wistfully  after,  but  dared  not  follow,  and, 
taking  from  the  mantle-shelf  Walker’s  Dictionary,  he  began  to 
study  a  column  of  definitions,  in  a  whisper  sufficiently  loud  for 
every  one  in  the  house  to  hear. 

I  inquired  if  that  were  one  of  his  studies  at  school  ;  but  so 
painful  was  the  embarrassment  occasioned  by  the  question, 
though  he  simply  answered,  “  B’iieve  it  is,”  that  I  repented, 
and  perhaps  the  more,  as  it  failed  of  its  purpose  of  inducing 
a  somewhat  lower  whisper,  in  his  mechanical  repetitions  of  the 
words,  which  he  resumed  with  the  same  annoying  distinctness. 

With  the  first  appearance  of  daylight  the  single  candle  was 
snuffed  out,  and  it  now  stood  filling  the  room  with  smoke  from 
its  long  limber  wick,  while  the  seven  women  removed  the  dishes, 
and  I  changed  from  place  to  place  that  I  might  seem  to  have 
some  employment;  and  Andrew,  his  head  and  face  heated  in 
the  blaze  from  the  fireplace,  studied  the  Dictionary.  In  half 
an  hour  Uncle  Christopher  returned,  with  stern  satisfaction 
depicted  in  his  face  :  the  kitten  was  in  the  well,  and  Mark  was 
in  the  barn ;  I  felt  that,  and  was  miserable. 

I  asked  for  something  to  do,  as  the  old  man,  resuming  his 
seat,  and,  folding  his  hands  over  his  staff,  began  a  homily  on 


ISi 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


the  beauty  of  industry,  and  was  given  some  patch-work; 
“There  are  fifty  blocks  in  the  quilt,”  said  Aunt  Rachael,  “and 
each  of  them  contains  three  hundred  pieces.” 

1  wrought  diligently  all  the  day,  though  I  failed  to  see  the 
use  or  beauty  of  the  work  on  which  I  was  engaged. 

At  last  Andrew,  putting  his  Dictionary  in  his  pocket,  saying, 
“I  b’lieve  I  have  my  lesson  by  heart,”  and,  a  piece  of  bread 
and  butter  in  the  top  of  his  hat,  tacked  the  ends  of  his  green 
woolen  trowsers  in  his  cowhide  boots,  and,  without  a  word  of 
kindness  or  encouragement,  left  the  house  for  the  school. 

By  this  time  the  seven  women  had  untwisted  seven  skeins 
of  blue  yarn,  which 'they  wound  into  seven  blue  balls,  and 
each  at  the  same  time  began  the  knitting  of  seven  blue 
stockings. 

That  was  a  very  long  day  to  me,  and  as  the  hours  went  by  I 
grew  restless,  and  then  wretched.  Was  little  Mark  all  this 
time  in  the  cold  barn  ?  Scratching  the  frost  from  the  window 
pane,  I  looked  in  the  direction  from  which  1  expected  him  to 
come,  but  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

The  quick  clicking  of  the  knitting-needles  grew  hateful,  the 
shut  mouths  and  narrow  foreheads  of  the  seven  women  grew 
hateful,  and  hatefulest  of  all  grew  the  small  blue  shining  eyes 
of  Uncle  Christopher,  as  they  bent  on  the  yellow  worm-eaten 
page  of  the  old  book  he  read.  He  was  warm  and  comfortable, 
and  had  forgotten  the  existence  of  the  little  boy  he  had  driven 
cut  into  the  cold. 

I  put  down  my  work  at  last,  and  cold  as  it  was,  ventured 
out.  There  were  narrow  paths  leading  to  the  many  barns  and 
cribs,  and  entering  one  after  another,  I  called  to  Mark,  but  in 
vain.  Calves  started  up,  and,  placing  their  fore  feet  in  the 

troughs  from  which  they  usually  fed,  looked  at  me,  half  in 

wonder  and  half  in  fear ;  the  horses — and  there  seemed  to  be 
dozens  of  them — stamped,  and  whinnied,  and,  thrusting  their 
noses  through  their  mangers,  pressed  them  into  a  thousand 
wrinkles,  snuffing  the  air  instead  of  expected  oats.  It  was  so 
intensely  cold  I  began  to  fear  the  boy  was  dead,  and  turned 

over  bundles  of  hay  and  straw,  half  expecting  to  find  his 

stiffened  corpse  beneath  them,  but  I  did  not,  and  was  about 


UNCLE  CHRISTOPHER’S. 


186 


leaving  the  green  walls  of  hay  that  rose  smoothly  on  each  side 
of  me,  the  great  dusty  beams  and  black  cobwebs  swaying  here 
and  there  in  the  wind,  when  a  thought  struck  me  :  the  well — 
he  might  have  fallen  in  !  Having  gone  “  a  rod  or  more,  easterly 
from  the  barn,”  directed  by  great  footprints  and  little  footprints, 
I  discovered  the  place,  and  to  my  joy,  the  boy  also.  There  was 
no  curb  about  the  well,  and,  with  his  hands  resting  on  a  decayed 
strip  of  plank  that  lay  across  its  mouth,  the  boy  was  kneeling 
beside  it,  and  looking  in.  He  had  not  heard  my  approach, 
and,  stooping,  I  drew  him  carefully  back,  showed  him  how 
the  plank  was  decayed,  and  warned  him  against  such  fearful 
hazards. 

“  But,”  he  said,  half  laughing,  and  half  crying,  “just  see  !” 
and  he  pulled  me  toward  the  well.  The  opening  was  small 
and  dark,  and  seemed  very  deep,  and  as  I  looked  more  intently 
my  vision  gradually  penetrated  to  the  bottom  ;  I  could  see  the 
still  pool  there,  and  a  little  above  it,  crouching  on  a  loose  stone 
or  other  projection  of  the  wall,  the  kitten,  turning  her  shining 
eyes  upward  now  and  then,  and  mewing  piteously. 

“  Do  you  think  she  will  get  any  of  it  1”  said  Mark,  the  tears 
coming  into  his  eyes  ;  “and  if  she  does,  how  long  will  she  live 
there  1”  The  kind-hearted  child  had  been  dropping  down  bits 
of  bread  for  the  prisoner. 

He  was  afraid  to  go  to  the  house,  but  when  I  told  him  Uncle 
Christopher  might  scold  me  if  he  scolded  any  one,  and  that  I 
would  tell  him  so,  he  was  prevailed  upon  to  accompany  me. 
The  hard  man  wras  evidently  ashamed  when  he  saw  the  child 
hiding  behind  my  skirts  for  fear,  and  at  first  said  nothing.  But 
directly  Mark  began  to  cry — there  was  such  an  aching  and 
stinging  in  his  fingers  and  toes,  he  could  not  help  it. 

“Boo,  hoo,  hoo  !”  said  the  old  man,  making  three  times  as 
much  noise  as  the  boy — “what’s  the  matter  now1?” 

“  I  suppose  his  hands  and  feet  are  frozen,”  said  I,  as  though 
I  knew  it,  and  would  maintain  it  in  spite  of  him,  and  1  confess 
1  felt  a  secret  satisfaction  in  showing  him  his  cruelty. 

“Oh,  I  guess  not,”  Aunt  Rachael  said,  quickly,  alarmed  for 
my  cool  assertion  as  well  as  for  the  child  :  “  only  a  leetle  frosted, 
I  reckon.  Whereabouts  does  it  hurt  you,  my  son  ?”  she  con- 


180 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


tinued,  stooping  over  him  with  a  human  sympathy  and  fond¬ 
ness  I  had  not  previously  seen  in  any  of  the  family. 

“Frosted  a  leetle— that’s  all,  Christopher,”  she  said,  by  way 
of  soothing  her  lord’s  compunction,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
taking  in  her  hands  the  feet  of  the  boy,  which  he  flung  about 
for  pain,  crying  bitterly.  “  Hush,  little  honey,”  she  said,  kissing 
him,  and  afraid  the  good  man  would  be  vexed  at  the  crying ; 
and  as  she  sat  there  holding  his  feet,  and  tenderly  soothing  him, 
I  at  first  could  not  believe  she  was  the  same  dark  and  sedate 
matron  who  had  been  knitting  the  blue  stocking. 

“Woman,  fret  not  thy  gizzard!”  said  Christopher,  slapping 
his  book  on  the  table,  and  hanging  his  spectacles  on  the  jamb. 
The  transient  beauty  all  dropt  away,  the  old  expression  of 
obsequious  servility  was  back,  and  she  resumed  her  seat  and 
her  knitting. 

“  There,  let  me  doctor  you,”  he  continued,  drawing  the 
child’s  stocking  off.  The  feet  were  covered  with  blisters,  and 
presented  the  appearance  of  having  been  scalded.  “  Why,  boy 
alive,”  said  he,  as  he  saw  the  blisters,  “these  are  nothing — 
they  will  make  you  grow.”  He  was  forgetting  his  old  pom¬ 
posity,  and,  as  if  aware  of  it,  resumed,  “Thou  hast  been  chas¬ 
tised  according  to  thy  deserts — go  forth  in  the  face  of  the  wind, 
even  the  north  wind,  and,  as  the  ox  treadeth  the  mortar,  tread 
thou  the  snow.” 

“  You  see,  Markey,”  interposed  Mrs.  Wright,  whose  heart 
was  really  kind, — “you  see  your  feet  are  a  leetle  frosted,  and 
that  will  make  them  well.” 

The  little  fellow  wiped  his  tears  with  his  hand,  which  wTas 
cracked  and  bleeding  from  the  cold  ;  and,  between  laughing 
and  crying,  jan  manfully  out  into  the  snow. 

It  was  almost  night,  and  the  red  clouds  about  the  sunset 
began  to  cast  their  shadows  along  the  hills.  The  seven  women 
went  into  the  kitchen  for  the  preparation  of  dinner,  (we  ate  but 
two  meals  in  the  day)  and  1  went  to  the  window  to  watch 
Mark  as  he  trod  the  snow  “  even  as  an  ox  treadeth  the  mortar.” 
There  he  wras,  running  hither  and  thither,  and  up  and  down, 
but,  to  my  surprise,  not  alone.  Andrew,  who  had  returned 
from  school,  and  found  his  little  friend  in  such  a  sorry  plight, 


UNCLE  CHRISTOPHER’S. 


187 

had,  for  the  sake  of  giving  him  courage,  bared  his  own  feet,  and 
was  chasing  after  him  in  generously  well-feigned  enjoyment. 
Towser,  too,  had  come  forth  from  his  kennel  of  straw,  and  a 
gay  frolic  they  made  of  it,  all  together. 

I  need  not  describe  the  dinner — it  differed  only  from  the 
breakfast,  in  that  it  had  potatoes  added  to  the  bread  and  pork. 

1  remember  never  days  so  long,  before  nor  since ;  and  that 
night,  as  the  women  resumed  their  knitting,  and  Uncle  Christo¬ 
pher  his  old  book,  I  could  hardly  keep  from  crying  like  a  child, 
I  was  so  lonesome  and  homesick.  The  wind  roared  in  the 
neighboring  woods,  the  frozen  branches  rattled  against  the 
stone  wall,  and  sometimes  the  blaze  w’as  blown  quite  out  of 
the  fire-place.  I  could  not  see  to  make  my  patch-work,  for 
Uncle  Christopher  monopolized  the  one  candle,  and  no  one 
questioned  his  right  to  do  so ;  and,  at  last,  conscious  of  the 
displeasure  that  would  follow  me,  I  put  by  the  patches,  and 
joined  Mark  and  Andrew,  who  were  shelling  corn  in  the 
kitchen.  They  were  not  permitted  to  burn  a  candle,  but  the 
great  fire-place  was  full  of  blazing  logs,  and,  on  seeing  me,  their 
faces  kindled  into  smiles,  which  helped  to  light  the  room,  I 
thought.  The  floor  was  covered  with  red  and  white  cobs,  and 
there  were  sacks  of  ripe  corn,  and  tubs  of  shelled  corn,  about 
the  floor,  and,  taking  a  stool,  I  joined  them  at  their  work.  At 
first,  Andrew  was  so  much  confused,  and  rubbed  his  mouth  so 
much  with  his  handkerchief,  that  he  shelled  but  little  ;  grad¬ 
ually,  however,  he  overcame  his  diffidence,  and  seemed  to  enjoy 
the  privilege  of  conversation,  which  he  did  not  often  have, 
poor  fellow.  Little  Mark  made  slow  progress ;  his  tender 
hands  shrank  from  contact  with  the  rough  ears,  and  when  I 
took  his  place,  and  asked  him  where  he  lived,  and  how  old  he 
was,  his  heart  was  quite  won,  and  he  found  delight  in  com¬ 
municating  to  me  his  little  joys  and  sorrows.  He  was  not 
pretty,  certainly — his  eyes  were  gray  and  large,  his  hair  red, 
his  expression  surly,  his  voice  querulous,  and  his  manner  un- 
amiable,  except,  indeed,  when  talking  with  Andrew  or  myself. 

I  have  been  mistaken,  l  thought ;  he  is  really  amiable  and 
sweet-tempered  ;  and,  as  I  observed  him  very  closely,  his  more 
habitual  expression  came  to  his  face,  and  he  said,  abruptly, 


188 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“  I  don ’t  like  grandfather  !”  “  Why  ?”  I  said,  smoothing  back 

his  hair,  for  I  liked  him  the  better  for  saying  so.  “Because,” 
he  replied,  “he  don’t  like  me;”  and,  in  a  moment,  he  con¬ 
tinued,  while  his  eyes  moistened,  “  nobody  likes  me — every¬ 
body  says  I ’m  bad  and  ugly.”  “  Oh,  Mark !”  exclaimed 
Andrew,  “I  like  you,  but  I  know  somebody  I  don’t  like — 
somebody  that  wears  speetaclesses,  and  a  long  beard — I  do  n’t 
say  it’s  Uncle  Christopher,  and  I  don’t  say  it  ain’t.”  Mark 
laughed,  partly  at  the  peculiar  manner  in  which  Andrew'  ex¬ 
pressed  himself ;  and  when  I  told  him  I  liked  him  too,  and 
did  n’t  think  him  either  bad  or  ugly,  he  pulled  at  the  hem  of 
my  apron  as  he  remarked,  that  he  should  like  to  live  with  An¬ 
drew  and  me,  always. 

I  answrered  that  I  would  very  gladly  .take  him  with  me  when 
I  wrent  home,  and  his  face  shone  with  pleasure,  as  he  told  me 
he  had  never  yet  ridden  in  a  sleigh.  But  the  pleasure  lasted 
only  a  moment,  and,  with  an  altered  and  pained  expression,  he 
said,  “I  can’t  go — these  things  are  all  I  have  got,”  and  he 
pointed  to  his  homely  and  ill-conditioned  clothes. 

“  Never  mind,  I  will  mend  them,”  I  said  ;  and,  wiping  his 
eyes,  he  told  me  that  once  he  had  enough  money  to  buy  ever 
so  many  clothes,  that  he  earned  it  by  doing  errands,  sawing 
wrood,  and  other  services,  for  the  man  who  lived  next  door  to 
his  father  in  the  city,  and  that  one  Saturday  night,  when  he  had 
done  something  that  pleased  his  employer,  he  paid  him  all  he 
owred,  and  a  little  more,  for  being  a  good  boy.  “As  I  was 
running  home,”  said  he,  “I  met  two  boys  that  I  knew;  so  I 
stopped  to  show  them  how  much  money  I  had,  and  when  they 
told  me  to  put  it  on  the  pavement  in  three  little  heaps,  so  we 
could  see  how  much  it  made,  I  did  so,  and  they,  each  one  of 
them,  seized  a  heap  and  ran  away,  and  that,”  said  Mark,  “is 
just  the  truth.” 

“  And  what  did  you  do  then  I  asked. 

“  J  told  father,”  he  answered,  “  and  he  said  I  W'as  a  sim¬ 
pleton,  and  it  w?as  good  enough  for  me — that  he  wmuld  send 
me  out  here,  and  grandfather  would  straighten  me.” 

“Never  mind,  Markey,”  said  Andrew,  “it  will  be  New- 
Year’s,  day  after  to-morrow.” 


UNCLE  CHRISTOPHER’S. 


189 


And  so,  sitting  in  the  light  of  the  cob-fire,  and  guessing  what 
they  would  get  in  their  stockings,  I  left  them  for  the  night. 

I  did  not  dampen  their  expectations  of  a  good  time,  but  I 
saw  little  cause  to  believe  any  pleasant  dreams  of  their’s  would 
be  realized,  as  I  had  seen  no  indications  of  preparation  for  the 
holidays,  even  to  the  degree  of  a  plumb  cake,  or  mince-pie. 
But  I  was  certain  of  one  thing — whatever  Mark  was,  they  would 
not  make  him  any  better.  As  he  said,  nobody  loved  him, 
nobody  spoke  to  him,  from  morning  till  night,  unless  to  correct 
or  order  him,  in  some  way ;  and  so,  perhaps,  he  sometimes  did 
things  he  ought  not  to  do,  merely  to  amuse  his  idleness.  In  all 
ways  he  was  expected  to  have  the  wisdom  of  a  man — to  rise 
as  early,  and  sit  up  as  late,  endure  the  heat  and  cold  as  well, 
and  perform  nearly  as  much  labor.  So,  to  say  the  truth,  he 
was,  for  the  most  part,  sulky  and  sullen,  and  did  reluctantly 
that  which  he  had  to  do,  and  no  more,  except,  indeed,  at  the 
suggestion  of  Andrew,  or  while  I  was  at  the  house,  because  I  at 
my  request,  and  then  work  seemed  only  play  to  him. 

The  following  morning  was  precisely  like  the  morning  that 
preceded  it ;  the  family  rose  before  the  daylight,  and  moved 
about  by  the  tallow  candle,  and  prepared  breakfast,  while  Uncle 
Christopher  sat  in  the  great  arm-chair,  and  Mark  and  Andrew 
fed  the  cattle  by  the  light  of  a  lantern. 

“  To-morrow  will  be  New-Year’s,”  said  Mark,  when  break¬ 
fast  was  concluded,  and  Andrew  took  down  the  old  Dictionary. 
No  one  noticed  him,  and  he  presently  repeated  it. 

“  Well,  and  what  of  it  ?”  replied  the  old  man,  giving  him  a 
severe  look. 

“  Nothing  of  it,  as  I  know  of,”  said  the  boy  ;  “only  I  thought, 
maybe  we  would  have  something  nice.” 

“  Something  nice  !”  echoed  the  grandfather;  “don ’t  we  have 
something  nice  every  day 

“  Well,  but  I  want  to  do  something,”  urged  Mark,  sure  that 
he  wished  to  have  the  dull  routine  broken  in  some  way. 

“  Boys  will  be  boys,”  said  Aunt  Rachael,  in  her  most  con¬ 
ciliatory  tone,  and  addressing  nobody  in  particular  ;  and  J3re- 
sently  she  asked  Mark  what  had  become  of  the  potatoes  he 
gleaned.  He  replied  that  they  were  in  a  barrel  in  the  cellar. 


190 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“  Eaten  up  by  the  rats,”  added  Uncle  Christopher. 

“  No,  sir,”  said  Mark,  “  they  are  as  good  as  ever — may  I  sell 
them  V’ 

“  It ’s  a  great  wonder  you  did  n’t  let  the  rats  eat  them  ;  but, 

I  suppose,  jt ’s  from  no  oversight  of  yours,”  Uncle  Christopher 
said. 

“  Yes,  sir,  I  covered  them,”  replied  the  boy;  “and  now,  may 
I  sell  them  ? — you  said  I  might.” 

“  Sell  them — yes,  you  may  sell  them,”  replied  the  grand¬ 
father,  in  a  mocking  tone ;  “why  don’t  you  run  along  and  sell 
them  ?” 

Of  course,  the  boy  did  not  feel  that  he  could  sell  his  little 
crop,  nor  did  the  grandfather  intend  to  grant  any  such  per¬ 
mission.  _ 

“  Uncle  Christopher,”  said  Andrew,  looking  up  from  his 
Dictionary,  “  do  them  ere  potatoes  belong  to  you,  or  do  they 
belong  to  Markey  ?” 

The  old  man  did  not  reply  directly,  but  said  something  about 
busy  bodies  and  meddlers,  which  caused  Andrew  to  study  very 
earnestly,  while  Mark  withdrew  to  the  kitchen  and  cried,  alone. 
Toward  noon,  however,  his  grandfather  asked  him  if  he  could 
ride  the  old  sorrel  horse  to  the  blacksmith’s,  three  miles  away, 
and  get  new  shoes  set  on  him,  “because,”  said  he,  “if  you  can, 
you  can  carry  a  bag  of  the  potatoes,  and  sell  them.” 

Mark  forgot  how  cold  it  was,  forgot  his  ragged  trowsers,  for¬ 
got  everything,  except  that  the  next  day  was  New-Year’s,  and 
that  he  should  have  some  money  ;  and,  mounting  the  old  horse, 
with  a  bag  of  potatoes  for  a  saddle,  he  was  soon  facing  the 
north  wind.  He  had  no  warm  cap  to  turn  against  his  ears,  and 
no  mittens  for  his  hands,  but  he  had  something  pleasant  to 
think  about,  and  so  did  not  feel  the  cold  so  much. 

When  Andrew^came  from  school,  and  found  that  Mark  was 
gone  to  sell  his  potatoes,  he  was  greatly  pleased,  and  went  out 
early  to  feed  the  cattle,  first  carrying  the  bundles  of  oats  over 
the  hill  to  the  sheep — a  portion  of  the  work  belonging  to  Mark  ; 
and  he  also  made  a  blazing  fire,  and  watched  his  coming  at  the 
window  ;  but  no  one  else  seemed  to  think  of  him — the  supper 
was  served  and  removed,  and  not  even  the  tea  was  kept  by  the 


UNCLE  CHRISTOPHER'S. 


191 


fire  for  him.  It  was  long  after  dark  when  he  came,  cold  and 
hungry — but  nobody  made  room  at  the  hearth,  and  nobody 
inquired  the  result  of  his  speculation,  or  what  he  had  seen  or 
heard  during  the  day. 

“  You  will  find  bread  and  butter  in  the  cupboard,”  said  Aunt 
Rachael,  after  a  while,  and  that  was  all. 

But  he  had  received  a  dollar  for  the  potatoes  ;  that  was  for¬ 
tune  enough  for  one  day,  and  he  was  careless  and  thoughtless 
of  their  indifference. 

There  was  not  light  for  my  patch-work;  and  Aunt  Rachael 
gave  me  instead  a  fine  linen  sheet  to  hem.  “  Isn’t  it  fine  and 
pretty  V’  said  Mark,  coming  close  to  me  before  he  went  to  bed  ; 
“  I  wish  I  could  have  it  over  me.” 

“  Thoughtless  child,”  said  the  grandfather,  “you  will  have  it 
over  you  soon  enough,  and  nothing  else  about  you,  but  your 
coffin-boards.”  And,  with  this  benediction,  he  was  dismissed 
for  the  night. 

I  awoke  in  the  morning  early,  and  heard  the  laughter  of  An¬ 
drew  and  Mark — it  was  New-Year’s — and,  in  defiance  of  the 
gloomy  prospect,  they  were  merry;  but  when  I  descended  the 
grandson  looked  grave — he  had  found  nothing  in  his  stockings. 

“Put  your  feet  in  them,”  said  Uncle  Christopher,  “and  that 
will  be  something.” 

Fresh  snow  had  fallen  in  the  night,  and  the  wreather  was 
milder  than  it  had  been,  but  within  the  house,  the  day  began  as 
usual. 

“  Grandfather,”  said  Mark,  “  shall  we  not  have  the  fat  turkey- 
hen  for  dinner,  to-day  1  I  could  run  her  down  in  the  snow  so 
easy !” 

“  So  could  I  run  you  down  in  the  snow,  if  I  tried,”  he 
responded,  with  a  surly  quickness. 

“  New-YearV  day,”  said  Aunt  Rachael,  “is  no  better  than 
any  other,  that  I  know  of;  and  if  you  get  very  hungry,  you 
can  eat  good  bread  and  milk.” 

So,  as  in  other  mornings,  Andrew  whispered  over  the  Dic¬ 
tionary,  the  old  man  sat  in  the  corner,  and  the  seven  women 
began  to  knit. 

Toward  the  noon,  a  happy  thought  came  into  the  mind  of 


192 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Uncle  Christopher  :  there  would  be  wine-bibbers  and  mirth- 
makers  at  the  village,  three  miles  away — he  would  ride  thither, 
and  discourse  to  them  of  righteousness,  temperance,  and  judg¬ 
ment  to  come.  Mark  was  directed  to  bring  his  horse  to  the 
door,  and,  having  combed  his  long  beard  with  great  care,  and 
slipped  over  his  head  a  knitted  woollen  cap,  he  departed  on  his 
errand,  but  not  without  having  taken  from  little  Mark  the 
dollar  he  had  received  for  his  potatoes.  “It  may  save  a  soul,” 
he  said,  “  and  shall  a  wayward  boy  have  his  will,  and  a  soul 
be  lost  V ’ 

The  child,  however,  was  not  likely  in  this  way  to  be  infused 
with  religious  feeling,  whatever  Uncle  Christopher  might  think 
of  the  subject,  and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  a  sense  of  the  injus¬ 
tice  he  suffered  had  induced  a  change  in  his  heart  that  no  good 
angel  would  have  joy  to  see.  I  tried  to  appease  his  anger,  but 
he  recounted,  with  the  exactest  particularity,  all  the  history  of 
the  wrong  he  had  suffered,  and  would  not  believe  there  was  the 
slightest  justification  possible  for  robbing  him  of  what  was  his 
own,  instead  of  making  him,  as  his  grandfather  should  have 
done,  a  handsome  present.  About  the  middle  of  the  afternoon 
Andrew  came  home  from  school,  having  been  dismissed  at  so 
early  an  hour  because  it  was  a  holiday,  and  to  prepare  for  a 
spelling  match  to  be  held  at  the  school-house  in  the  evening. 
The  chores  were  done  long  before  sundown,  and  Andrew  was 
in  high  spirits,  partly  in  anticipation  of  the  night’s  triumphs, 
and  partly  at  the  prospect  of  bringing  some  happiness  to  the 
heart  of  Mark,  with  whom  he  several  times  read  over  the  les¬ 
son,  impressing  on  his  memory  with  all  the  skill  he  had  the  harder 
words  which  might  come  to  him.  Andrew  went  early,  having 
in  charge  the  school-house  fire,  and  Mark  did  not  accompany 
him,  but  I  supposed  he  would  follow  presently,  and  so  was  not 
uneasy  about  him. 

As  the  twilight  darkened,  Uncle  Christopher  came  in,  and, 
recounting  his  pious  labors,  with  a  conceited  cant  that  wTas  now 
become  disgusting  to  me,  he  inquired  for  Mark,  that  the  “  brand  ” 
might  hear  and  rejoice  at  the  good  accomplished  with  the 
money  thus  applied  for  the  regeneration  of  the  gentiles  ;  but 
Mark  was  not  to  be  found,  and  Aunt  Rachael  meekly  hinted 


UNCLE  CHRISTOPHER'S. 


193 


that  from  what  she  had  overheard,  she  suspected  he  had  gone 
with  Andrew  to  the  spelling  match. 

“  Gone  to  the  spelling  match — and  without  asking  me  !”  said 
the  good  man  ;  “  the  rod  has  been  spared  too  long.”  And 
taking  from  his  pocket  his  knife,  he  opened  it  with  deliberate 
satisfaction,  and  left  the  house. 

I  thought  of  the  words  of  Mark,  “  I  do  n’t  like  my  grand¬ 
father  and  I  felt  that  he  was  not  to  blame.  All  the  long 
evening  the  lithe  sapling  lay  over  the  mantel,  while  Uncle 
Christopher  kitted  his  brows,  and  the  seven  women  knitted 
their  seven  stockings.  I  could  not  use  my  needle,  nor  think 
of  what  was  being  done  about  me  ;  all  the  family  practised 
their  monotonous  tasks  in  gloomy  silence  ;  the  wind  shrieked 
in  the  trees,  whose  branches  were  flung  violently  sometimes 
against  the  windows  ;  Towser  came  scratching  and  whining  at 
the  door,  without  attracting  the  itotice  of  any  one  ;  and  Uncle 
Christopher  sat  in  his  easy-chair,  in  the  most  comfortable  corner, 
seeming  almost  as  if  he  were  in  an  ecstasy  with  intense  self- 
satisfaction,  or,  once  in  a  while,  looking  joyously  grim  and  stern 
as  his  eye  rested  on  the  instrument  of  torture  he  had  prepared 
for  poor  Mark,  for  whose  protection  I  found  myself  praying 
silently,  as  I  half  dreamed  that  he  was  in  the  hands  of  a  pitiless 
monster. 

The  old  clock  struck  eleven,  from  a  distant  part  of  the  house, 
and  we  all  counted  the  strokes,  it  was  so  still ;  the  sheet  I  had 
finished  lay  on  the  settee  beneath  the  window,  where  the  rose- 
vine  creaked,  and  the  mice  peered  out  of  the  gnawed  holes,  and 
the  rats  ran  through  the  mouldy  cellar.  There  was  a  stamping 
at  the  door,  in  the  moist  snow  ;  I  listened,  but  could  hear  no 
voices  ;  the  door  opened,  and  Andrew  came  in  alone. 

“  Where  is  Mark  V  asked  the  stern  voice  of  the  disci¬ 
plinarian. 

“  I  don’t  know,”  replied  Andrew  ;  “  is  n’t  he  here  ?” 

“  No,”  said  Aunt  Rachael,  throwing  down  her  knitting,  “nor 
hasn’t  been  these  many  hours.  Mercy  on  us,  where  can  he 

be  r 

“  Fallen  asleep  somewhere  about  the  house,  likely,”  replied 
the  old  man  ;  and  taking  up  the  candle,  he  began  the  search. 

9 


194 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“  And  he  has  n’t  been  with  yon,  Andrew  ?”  asked  Aunt 
Rachael  again,  in  the  faint  hope  that  he  would  contradict  his 
previous  assertion. 

“  No  ma’m,  as  true  as  I  live  and  breathe,”  he  replied,  with 
childish  simplicity  and  earnestness. 

“  Mercy  on  us  !”  she  exclaimed  again. 

We  could  hear  doors  opening  and  shutting,  and  floors  creak¬ 
ing  in  distant  parts  of  the  house  ;  but  nothing  more. 

“  It ’s  very  strange,”  said  the  old  man.  “Don’t  be  afraid, 
girls  but  he  was  evidently  alarmed,  and  his  hand  shook  as 
he  lighted  the  lantern,  saying,  “  he  must  be  in  the  barn  !” 

Aunt  Rachael  would  go,  and  I  would  go,  too — I  could  not 
stay  away.  Andrew  climbed  along  the  scaffolds,  stooping  and 
reaching  the  lantern  before  him,  and  now  and  then  we  called  to 
know  if  he  had  found  him,  as  if  he  would  not  tell  it  when  he 
did.  So  all  the  places  we  could  think  of  had  been  searched, 
and  we  had  began  to  call  and  listen,  and  call  again. 

“  Hark,”  said  Andrew,  “  I  heard  something.” 

We  were  all  so  still  that  it  seemed  as  if  we  might  hear  the 
falling  of  flakes  of  snow. 

“  Only  the  howl  of  a  dog,”  said  Uncle  Christopher. 

“  It ’s  Towser’s,”  suggested  Andrew,  fearfully;  and  with  an 
anxious  look  he  lowered  the  lantern  to  see  what  indications 
were  in  the  way.  Going  toward  the  well  were  seen  small  foot¬ 
prints,  and  there  were  none  returning.  Even  Uncle  Christo¬ 
pher  was  evidently  disturbed.  Seeing  the  light,  the  dog  began 
to  yelp  and  whine,  looking  earnestly  at  us,  and  then  suddenly 
down  in  the  well,  and  when  we  came  to  the  place  every  one 
felt  a  sinking  of  the  heart,  and  no  one  dared  to  speak.  The 
plank,  on  which  1  had  seen  him  resting,  was  broken,  and  a  part 
of  it  had  fallen  in.  Towser  whined,  and  his  eyes  shone  as  if  he 
were  in  agony  for  words,  and  trying  to  throw  all  his  intelli¬ 
gence  into  each  piteous  look  he  gave  us. 

“  Get  a  rope,  and  lower  the  light,”  said  one  of  the  sisters ; 
but  the  loose  stones  of  the  well  were  already  rattling  to  the 
touch  of  Andrew,  who,  planting  hands  and  feet  on  either  side, 
was  rapidly  but  cautious] v  descending.  In  a  moment  he  was 
out  of  sight,  but  still  we  heard  him,  and  soon  there  was  a 


UNCLE  CHRISTOPHER’S. 


195 


pause,  then  'the  sound  of  a  hand,  plashing  the  water,  then  a 
groan,  sounding  hollow  and  awful  through  the  damp,  dark 
opening,  and  a  dragging,  soughing  movement,  as  if  something 
were  drawn  up  from  the  water.  Presently  we  heard  hands  and 
feet  once  more  against  the  sides  of  the  well,  and  then,  shining 
through  the  blackness  into  the  light,  two  fiery  eyes,  and  quickly 
after,  as  the  bent  head  and  shoulders  of  Andrew  came  nearer 
the  surface,  the  kitten  leaped  from  them,  and  dashed  blindly 
past  the  old  man,  who  was  kneeling  and  looking  down,  pale 
with  remorseful  fear.  Approaching  the  top,  Andrew  said, 
“  I’ve  got  him  !”  and  the  grandfather  reached  down  and  lifted  the 
lifeless  form  of  the  boy  into  his  arms,  where  he  had  never 
reposed  before.  He  was  laid  on  the  settee,  by  the  window  ; 
the  fine  white  sheet  that  I  had  hemmed,  was  placed  over  him  ; 
the  stern  and  hard  master  walked  backward  and  forward  in 
the  room,  softened  and  contrite,  though  silent,  except  when 
occasional  irrepressible  groans  disclosed  the  terrible  action  of 
his  conscience  ;  and  Towser,  who  had  been  Mark’s  dearest  play¬ 
mate,  nearly  all  the  while  kept  his  face,  from  without,  against 
the  window  pane.  * 

“  Oh,  if  it  were  yesterday  !”  murmured  Uncle  Christopher, 
when  the  morning  came;  “Andrew,”  he  said,  and  his  voice 
faltered,  as  the  young  man  took  from  the  mantel  the  long, 
limber  rod,  and  measured  the  shrouded  form  from  the  head  to 
the  feet,  “get  the  coffin  as  good  as  you  can — I  don’t  care  what 
it  costs — get  the  best.” 

The  Dictionary  was  not  opened  that  day ;  Andrew  was 
digging  through  the  snow,  on  a  lonesome  hill-side,  pausing  now 
and  then  to  wipe  his  eyes  on  his  sleeve.  Upright  on  the  grave’s 
edge,  his  only  companion,  sat  the  black  dog. 

Poor  little  Mark  ! — we  dressed  him  very  carefully,  more 
prettily,  too,  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life,  and  as  he  lay 
on  the  white  pillow,  all  who  saw  him  said,  “  How  beautiful  he 
is  !”  The  day  after  the  funeral,  I  saw  Andrew,  previously  to  his 
setting  out  for  school,  cutting  from  the  sweet-brier  such  of  the 
limbs  as  were  reddest  with  berries,  and  he  placed  them  over 
the  heaped  earth,  as  the  best  offering  he  could  bring  to  beautify 
the  last  home  of  his  companion.  In  the  afternoon  I  went  home, 


196 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


and  have  never  seen  him  since,  but,  ignorant  and  graceless  as 
he  was,  he  had  a  heart  full  of  sympathy  and  love,  and  Mark 
had  owed  to  him  the  happiest  hours  of  his  life. 

Perhaps,  meditating  of  the  injustice  he  himself  was  suffering, 
the  unhappy  boy,  whose  terrible  death  had  brought  sadness 
and  perhaps  repentance  to  the  house  of  Uncle  Christopher,  had 
thought  of  the  victim  consigned  by  the  same  harsh  master 
to  the  well,  and  determined,  before  starting  for  the  school- 
house,  to  go  out  and  drop  some  food  for  it  over  the  decayed 
plank  on  which  I  had  seen  him  resting,  and  by  its  breaking 
had  been  precipitated  down  its  uneven  sides  to  the  bottom, 
and  so  killed.  But  whether  the  result  was  by  such  acci¬ 
dent,  or  by  voluntary  violence,  his  story  is  equally  instructive 
to  those  straight  and  ungenial  natures  which  see  no  beauty  in 
childhood,  and  would  drive  before  its  time  all  childishness 
from  life. 


MY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH. 


19; 


MY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH 

I. 

“  There  is  some  force,  I  know  not  what  to  call  it, 

Pulls  me  irresistibly,  and  drags  me 

On  to  his  grave.”  Thekla. 

We  are  driving  through  the  storm,  always  with  bright 
islands  ahead,  where  the  sunshine  is  showering  through  green 
boughs,  where  the  dew  lies  all  day  in  the  grass,  and  the  birds 
sing  and  sing,  and  are  never  tired  of  music.  Sometimes 
we  drift  against  these  spots  of  loveliness,,  and  have,  to  quote 
Thekla  again,  u  two  hours  of  heaven.”  But  alas,  it  is  only 
sometimes  that  we  cross  these  glittering  borders  of  Paradise, 
for  there  are  other  islands  to  which  we  come  often,  islands  of 
hot  creeping  winds,  and  flat  sands,  wherein  we  may  plant  our¬ 
selves,  but  never  grow  much :  islands  of  barren  rocks,  against 
which  we  find  no  homeliest  vine  climbing,  though  in  search  of 
such  we  go  up  and  down  till  the  sun  sets,  and  the  day  fades  out, 
on  the  wave  that  is  very  dark  and  very  turbulent.  It  is  there¬ 
fore  needful  that  our  voyaging  be  skillful  as  may  be,  and  that 
we  watch  for  the  good  islands  with  everlasting  vigilance.  We 
may  not  fail  to  see  the  dreary  places,  but  we  must  have  an  eye 
that  the  bright  ones  do  not  elude  our  sight ;  and  so,  though  they 
be  few,  they  will  satisfy  our  hearts.  It  is  needful  that  we  be 
charitable,  limiting  as  much  as  we  can  our  distrusts  to  our  own 
natures.  We  may  find  enough  there  that  we  would  shrink 
from  having  the  kindest  eyes  look  in  upon  ;  in  the  living  sea 
we  shall  be  at  rest,  if  we  are  anxious  only  to  discover  beauty 
and  truth. 

Some  years  ago,  (I  do  n’t  much  like  to  number  them,  for  as 
one  after  another  leaves  me,  I  see  how  the  bloom  of  life  has 


198 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD, 


faded  and  is  fading,)  I  passed  a  month,  perhaps — I  do  n’t  re¬ 
member  precisely  how  long  a  time — in  one  of  the  towns  of 
the  interior — in  Randolph.  Perhaps  the  name  is  altered  now 
in  the  geographies.  I  had  grown  up  in  the  woods — had  never 
been  from  home  before,  except  occasionally  to  go  down  to  the 
city  for  a  day  or  two,  and  knew  nothing  of  the  conventional 
usages  even  of  such  a  quiet  and  unheard  of  place  as  Randolph. 
Full  of  hope  and  sympathy,  credulous  and  artless,  I  did  not 
know  at  the  time,  and  it  is  well  I  did  not,  how  wholly  unpre¬ 
pared  I  was  to  be  placed  in  the  midst  of  a  family  of  the  “  double 
refined.”  I  was  ignorant  enough  then,  to  like  nature,  to  sup¬ 
pose  the  highest  cultivation  was  only  an  enlarging  of  our 
appreciation  of  nature — a  conceit  of  which  we  are  soon  cured, 
most  of  us. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  one  of  the  mildest  of  the  September 
days  that  I  found  myself  in  the  village,  the  visitor  of  a  family 
there  named  Hamersly.  I  was  dusty,  tired,  and  a  little  home¬ 
sick.  Mrs.  Hamersly,  a  widow  of  “  sixty  odd,”  as  she  called 
herself,  I  had  never  seen  till  that  evening;  with  Matilda  Ham¬ 
ersly,  a  young  lady  of  forty,  or  thereabouts,  I  had  previously 
some  slight  acquaintance :  Til  and  Tilda  they  called  her  at 
home,  and  these  names  pleased  her  much  better  than  that  they 
gave  her  in  baptism  :  they  had  a  sort  of  little-girlish  sound 
that  became  her  well,  she  seemed  to  think  ;  and  Frances,  or 
Frank,  a  young  woman  of  nineteen,  with  whom  I  had  been  at 
school,  and  knew  well — that  is,  as  well  as  I  could  know  her, 
separated  from  home  influences.  These  three  comprised  the 
family  whose  guest  I  was  to  be. 

Frank  laughed  heartily  on  seeing  me,  ran  out  to  meet  me, 
shook  both  my  hands,  and  fairly  dragged  me  into  the  house ; 
and  when  she  had  shown  me  into  the  best  room,  and  given  me 
the  best  chair,  she  sat  down  herself  on  the  carpet  at  my  feet, 
tossed  back  her  heavy  brown  curls,  and  with  her  blue  eyes  full  of 
laughter  and  tears,  looked  in  my  face,  saying  only,  “  How  glad 
I  am  !”  She  never  once  thought  that  she  was  “  not  dressed” — 
that  is,  that  she  had  on  a  faded  muslin,  fitting  close  to  the  neck, 
and  having  long  sleeves ;  or  that  her  little  white  feet  were 
stockingless,  and  thrust  into  slippers  somewhat  the  worse  for 


MY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH. 


190 


wear — she  did  n’t  think,  for  the  truth  must  be  told,  her  pink 
gingham  apron  bore  evidences  of  acquaintance  with  sundry 
kitchen  utensils,  the  names  of  which  are  not  poetical ;  she 
was  unfeignedly  glad,  and  quite  unconscious  of  being  unpre¬ 
sentable. 

The  house  wherein  mv  friends  dwelt  was  old  and  small,  con- 
tabling  in  truth  only  one  decent  apartment — it  being  but  a 
story  and  a  half  in  height,  and  only  large  enough  for  a  “square 
room”  and  hall  on  the  ground  floor.  Up  stairs  was  a  general 
store  room,  a  “  spare  room,”  hardly  large  enough  for  a  lady  of 
Lilliput,  and  a  sleeping  place  for  the  young  women.  Mrs. 
Ilamersly,  being  sixty-odd,  disposed  herself  on  a  sofa  bedstead 
in  the  parlor,  at  precisely  half  past  nine,  at  which  hour,  every 
night,  by  one  means  or  another,  the  room  was  cleared  of  all 
occupants.  Two  or  three  pots  of  common  flowers  adorned  the 
front  window,  and  they  were  a  great  ornament  and  relief,  for 
the  house  stood  immediately  on  the  street,  so  that  nothing 
green  was  in  sight  except  the  little  grass  that  grew  between  the 
pavement  stones.  The  furniture  of  this  main  room  was  scanty 
and  old,  but  was  arranged,  nevertheless,  with  some  pretensions 
to  style  and  effect;  1  need  not.  describe  it — we  have  all  seen 
things  that  in  vulgar  parlance,  “  tried  to  be  and  could  n’t ;”  I 
may  mention,  however,  that  amongst  the  furniture  was  a  dilapi¬ 
dated  chair,  which  had  been  ornamental  in  its  day,  perhaps, 
but  that  was  a  long  time  ago,  and  was  “  kept  wisely  for  show;” 
it  was  placed  conspicuously  of  course,  and  its  infirmity  con¬ 
cealed  as  much  as  might  be  by  means  of  tidies  and  cushions, 
but  it  was  wholly  unfit  for  use,  and  whoever  attempted  to  sit  in 
it  was  led  off  by  Tilda,  with  the  whispered  information  that  it 
was  a  bad  old  chair,  and  played  naughty  tricks  sometimes. 
Beside  this  room  and  the  kitchen,  there  were  about  the  premi¬ 
ses  three  other  places  of  which  honorable  mention  was  very 
frequently  made — the  kitchen,  the  refectory,  and  the  court. 
The  first  was  a  small  building  of  logs,  standing  some  fifteen 
feet  in  the  rear  of  the  principal  edifice,  and  which  had  been 
built  probably  long  before  the  tavern  on  the  corner  of  Maine 
and  Washington  streets  was  thought  of.  It  contained  a  small 
pantry,  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  a  large  fireplace,  and  be- 


200 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


sides  the  necessary  kitchen  furniture,  a  rude  wooden  desk,  over 
which  hung  a  shelf  containing  a  curious  combination  of  well- 
worn  books,  and  yet  another  shelf,  which  held  combs,  brushes, 
curling  tongs,  a  pink  paper  box  filled  with  Chinese  powder,  and 
articles  belonging  to  the  toilet.  A  circular  looking-glass  hung 
against  the  wall  beside  the  first  mentioned  shelf,  ingeniously 
fixed  in  its  place  by  means  of  a  brass  pin  ;  and  the  shelf  held, 
beside  the  books,  a  razor,  a  box  of  buttons,  a  spool  of  cotton- 
thread,  a  pair  of  scissors,  and  bits  of  tape  and  other  strings, 
and  in  a  tin  candlestick  was  part  of  a  tallow  candle.  Beside  the 
desk  was  a  chair,  the  original  bottom  of  which  had  been  sup¬ 
plied  by  strips  of  hickory  bark,  woven  very  curiously.  The 
court  was  an  open  space  between  this  and  the  porch  leading  into 
the  main  building — a  little  plot  of  ground  which  might  have 
been  with  small  care  rendered  pretty,  but  which  in  reality  was 
the  receptacle  of  all  the  refuse  of  the  house.  The  grass,  if  it 
ever  produced  any,  had  been  long  trodden  into  the  earth,  the 
water  from  the  kitchen  had  been  dashed  down  there  till  the 
clay  was  blue,  and  planks,  and  bricks,'  and  stones,  served  to 
make  a  road  across  it.  It  had  once  been  adorned  with  a  com¬ 
mon  rose  bush  and  a  lilac,  but.  as  they  stood  now,  untrimmed 
and  sprawling,  with  muddy  leaves,  and  limbs  broken  and  hang¬ 
ing  down,  and  bits  of  rags  and  old  paper,  and  other  unseemly 
things  lodging  among  them,  they  were  scarcely  ornamental,  to 
say  the  least.  Broken  crockery,  and  all  the  various  accumula¬ 
tions  of  such  humble  housekeeping,  lay  in  this  place,  denomi¬ 
nated  the  court,  in  eye-vexing  confusion.  Nor  was  it  without 
living  inhabitants ;  not  a  slab  nor  a  dry  stone  but  was  occu¬ 
pied  ;  for  here  dwelt,  or  rather  came  to  take  the  air,  six  cats  and 
a  small  red-nosed  and  woolly  dog,  the  former  lean,  and  soiled 
with  soot  from  pots  and  kettles,  and  their  ears  either  notched  or 
quite  gone,  from  the  worrying  assaults  of  the  dog,  whose  natu¬ 
ral  snappishness  was  perhaps  aggravated  by  his  scanty  feeding. 
The  refectory  was  a  porch  in  the  rear  of  the  front  house,  in¬ 
closed  at  the  ends  with  various  sorts  of  patchwork,  and  con¬ 
taining  a  table  and  several  chairs.  Here,  in  summer,  the  family 
meals  were  taken. 

But  to  go  back  to  the  time  of  my  sitting  in  the  parlor,  with 


MY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH. 


202 


Frank  at  my  feet :  for  this  information  which  I  have  given  was 
a  fruit  of  subsequent  observation.  There  was  a  good  deal  of 
creaking  of  the  boards  overhead,  which  1  took  little  notice  of 
at  the  time,  so  engaged  were  we  with  each  other,  when  the 
stairway  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Hamersly  entered,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  her  daughter  Tilda,  both  in  “full  dress.” 

“And  this  is  the  darling  young  lady  Frank  has  made  us  all 
in  love  with,”  said  the  elder  of  the  ladies  ;  “  excuse  me,  my 
dear,  I  am  sixty  odd,”  and  she  lifted  my  hand  to  her  lips,  which 
were  white  and  cold,  I  thought,  and  kissed  it. 

I  said,  “  Certainly,  madam,”  but  whether  she  wished  to  be 
excused  for  being  sixty  odd,  or  for  not  kissing  my  cheek,  I  was 
not  quite  positive. 

“  This  is  my  mamma,”  said  Tilda,  in  an  affected  tone,  and 
giving  the  old  woman  a  hug,  as  though  she  had  first  met  her 
after  years  of  separation;  then,  to  me  again,  “You  must  love 
my  mamma,  and  mind  every  thing  she  says,  like  a  good  little 
girl.” 

Mrs.  Hamersly,  during  this  speech,  seated  herself  next  the 
chair  that  was  a  chair,  and  Tilda  left  off  patting  my  cheek  and 
smoothing  my  hair,  to  put  the  cushion  under  her  mamma’s 
fret,  the  mamma  again  repeating  to  me  that  she  was  sixty-odd. 
Not  till  she  had  adjusted  her  skirts  to  the  widest  breadth,  and 
once  or  twice  slipt  the  gray  curls  that  she  wore  through  her 
delicate  fingers,  did  she  observe  that  Frank  was  seated  on  the 
carpet. 

“  Oh  my  child,  my  child  !”  she  exclaimed,  “  do  you  desire  to 
kill  me?”  And  she  fanned  herself  violently  with  her  embroi¬ 
dered  handkerchief. 

“Mamma,  do  n’t  give  way  so,”  drawled  Tilda,  helping  to 
fan,  “  Frank  is  bad  as  she  can  be.” 

“  Oh  Tild,  if  it  were  not  for  you  ;  do  reprove  her  as  she  de¬ 
serves  :  you  know  I  cannot.” 

Then  turning  to  me,  she  said,  “  The  girl  would  shock  me — so 
thoughtless — and  I  am  sixty-odd.” 

Tilda  administered  the  requisite  reproof  in  a  series  of  little 
boxes  upon  the  ear  of  Frank,  saying,  “To  think!  when  you 
know  so  well  what  is  proper  !  to  think,  Oh,  I  can’t  express  my 

9* 


202 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


feelings  !  but  I  am  as  nervous  as  a  little  fool :  to  think,  that  Ence 
might  have  come  in  and  found  you  in  that  improper  position  ! 
oh  dear,  dear  !  Not  that  1  care  for  Ence  ;  he  is  nobody  ;  I 
do  n’t  care  for  him  more  than  1  care  for  an  old  stick  of  a  weed 
that  grows  in  the  court ;  but  Ence  is  of  the  male  sex,  you  know, 
and  propriety  must  be  observed.  Now,  mamma,  do  n’t  take 
on,  and  we  children  will  all  be  so  good.” 

Having  said  this,  she  sat  down,  pulled  her  skirts  out  either 
side  half  way  across  the  room,  crossed  her  hands  in  a  proper 
way,  and  opened  a  conversation  in  a  sort  of  high-flown  orator¬ 
ical  style,  beginning  with,  “  There  has  been  a  gwate  quwantity 
of  doost  floying  to-day.” 

Miss  Matilda  Hamersly  was  never  for  a  moment  free  from 
affectations.  Sometimes  she  talked  wisely  and  with  style  and 
flourish  ;  this  was  her  method  mostly  with  women  and  married 
and  very  elderly  men,  but  with  marriageable  gentlemen  of  any 
age  or  condition,  she  talked  babyishly,  and  affected  to  pout  like 
a  little  girl.  It  was  decidedly  unbecoming,  in  view  of  the  gray 
hairs  and  the  deep  lines  below  them.  In  dress,  too,  she  assumed 
great  juvenility,  wearing  frocks  of  the  same  material  and  style 
as  her  sister,  who  was  twenty  years  younger.  She  would  only 
admit  that  she  was  older  in  a  larger  knowledge  of  the  proprie¬ 
ties  of  life. 

I  remember  now,  that  1  looked  at  them,  mother  and 
daughter,  sitting  there  together,  as  curiously  as  if  they  had 
just  come  down  from  the  moon.  Mrs.  Hamersly  wore  a  gray 
silk  peculiarly  shaded,  I  thought  that  night,  but  I  afterwards 
discovered  that  the  shading  was  of  only  soiling,  for  she  carried 
always  in  her  pocket  pieces  of  burnt  and  greasy  cake,  which  she 
occasionally  nibbled ;  she  never  ate  at  the  table;  “My  dear,” 
she  would  say,  “  I  am  sixty-odd:  just  give  me  a  cup  of  tea  on 
my  lap.” 

All  her  ribbons,  and  she  -wore  as  many  as  could  be  any  way 
attached  to  her,  were  faded,  dirty,  or  in  strings ;  the  lace  of 
her  cap — and  it  was  real  lace — was  as  yellow  as  dust  and 
smoke  and  the  sweat  of  years  could  make  it.  From  her 
waist  an  eye-glass  dangled  down,  which  she  sometimes  used, 
because  she  thought  it  looked  pretty — always  at  half  past 


MY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH. 


203 


nine  o’clock,  apparently  to  ascertain  the  time,  but  in  reality  to 
scare  away  any  visitors,  for,  merely  from  caprice,  she  would 
not  abide  one  after  that  hour. 

When  she  had  surveyed  me  with  her  glass,  she  closed  her 
eyes  and  leaned  back  in  her  chair.  She  never  talked  much,  in 
fact  she  never  did  anything,  never  even  moved  her  chair  from 
one  part  of  the  room  to  another.  She  seemed  to  regard  herself 
as  free  of  all  duty  and  all  responsibility,  by  limitation  of  the 
law,  or  elevation  above  it.  Her  better  life  seemed  to  have 
given  way  before  an  habitual  indolence,  till  there  appeared 
scarcely  any  vitality  about  her;  her  face  and  hands  were  color¬ 
less,  and  a  fresh  corpse,  dressed  in  ribbons  and  flounces,  would 
have  looked  as  life-like  as  she,  after  composing  her  skirts  and 
assuming  her  fixed  smile — not  unlike  that  which  comes  out 
sometimes  on  the  faces  of  the  dead. 

Matilda  was  an  overgrown  and  plain  looking  old  woman, 
with  a  fair  share  of  common  sense,  but  without  the  discretion 
to  use  it.  Unfortunately  she  wished  to  appear  something  she 
was  not,  and  so  assumed  the  style  of  a  girl  of  sixteen,  and  va¬ 
ried  her  conversation  from  an  ambitious  rhetoric  and  elocution 
to  the  pouting  and  pettishness  of  a  child  :  in  the  last  making 
herself  irresistible.  Her  neck  and  shoulders  she  was  obliged 
to  cover;  it  must  have  cost  her  a  hard  struggle,  but  when  she 
had  formed  the  judicious  resolution,  she  maligned  everybody 
who  had  not  the  same  necessity  ;  indeed  she  was  quite  shocked 
that  Frank  and  I  could  be  so  indelicate  as  to  appear,  especially 
before  gentlemen,  with  exposed  necks  and  arms. 

I  said  I  was  a  little  homesick  on  the  night  of  my  arrival, 
and  I  am  inclined  to  think,  as  I  recall  my  visit  now,  that  I  was 
more  than  a  little  so.  How  long  the  twilight  was  in  deepen¬ 
ing  into  night !  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  cadaverous  white  face 
of  the  old  woman  would  never  lose  any  of  its  sharp  outlines  in 
the  shadows,  that  the  great  pink  flowers  in  the  skirt  of  Matil¬ 
da’s  dress  would  never  become  indistinct  in  the  darkness; 
that  long  and  lonesome  period  betwixt  day  and  night  had 
never  till  then  seemed  so  long  and  so  lonesome. 

I  had  been  accustomed  at  Clovernook  to  go  out  to  a  hill  that 
overlooked  the  village,  a  mile  away,  watching  the  clouds  and 


204 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


waiting  for  the  stars  :  reading  poetry  either  in  the  world  about 
me  or  the  book  on  my  knees — and  I  could  not  help  thinking 
of  the  field  which  lay  between  that  hill  and  the  lights  of 
home,  of  the  cows  and  the  sheep  that  were  sinking  to  rest 
in  the  dewy  grass — in  spite  of  Miss  Matilda’s  efforts  to  enter¬ 
tain  me. 

“  You  are  thinking,”  she  said,  and  for  once  she  guessed  my 
thoughts,  “  of  the  cullover  fields  all  sperinkled  with  caattle, 
and  of  the  burooks,  and  the  berriers,  and  the  belossoms — you 
will  find  such  gereat  resthraint  here  !” 

I  said,  “  Oh  no,”  for  I  did  not  know  what  else  to  say,  and 
Matilda  lifted  up  both  hands  and  observed  that  “  You  have  no 
idea,  I  suppose  of  the  maanner  in  which  young  ladies  are  ex¬ 
pected  to  conduct  themselves  in  a  place  like  Randolph.” 

For  a  moment  I  forgot  my  dusty  and  uncomfortable  travel¬ 
ing  dress  in  the  music  Frank  was  making  with  the  tea-things — 
for  after  the  reprimand  she  had  received,  she  betook  herself  to 
the  kitchen,  and  now  sent  me  the  pleasant  tidings  of  her  occu¬ 
pation. 

“  Tilda,  my  darling,”  said  the  mamma,  opening  her  eyes, 
“  restrain  that  creature,  restrain  her,”  and  thereupon  Tilda 
withdrew,  and  such  parts  of  the  conversation  between  the  sis¬ 
ters  as  came  to  my  ears  were  not  calculated  to  dispel  the  home¬ 
sickness  that  had  previously  made  me  count  the  bows  in  Mrs. 
Hamersly’s  cap,  and  the  panes  of  glass  in  the  window,  and  twice 
to  change  my  position,  ostensibly  to  examine  the  portrait  of  a 
young  man,  which,  veiled  with  green  gauze,  hung  in  a  very 
bad  light.  I  need  not  repeat,  their  words:  enough  that  Frank 
had  kept  in  mind  the  appetite  that  was  likely  to  succeed  a  day 
of  stage-coach  travelling,  and  was  preparing  with  a  liberal 
hand. 

“  Do  you  suppose  she  is  a  bear,  starved  for  a  month]”  said 
Matilda. 

“  There  is  Clarence,  too  :  he  has  not  been  home  to-night  you 
know,”  urged  Frank. 

“  Ence — 1  ’ll  warrant  you  would  not  forget  Ence — he  knows 
our  tea-time,  and  we  don’t  keep  tavern;”  and  I  thought  Ma¬ 
tilda  seemed  to  be  removing  some  of  the  tea  furniture.  The 


AIY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH. 


205 


door  opened,  and  a  young  man  whom  I  could  see  very  imper¬ 
fectly  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  entered,  and  having  politely 
saluted  Mrs.  Ilamersly,  who  did  not  open  her  eyes,  passed 
back  to  where  the  young  women  were  engaged  about  the 
supper. 

“Just  an  hour  and  a  half  too  late,”  exclaimed  Matilda,  very 
haughtily,  I  thought. 

“  1  am  very  sorry,”  replied  the  young  man ;  “  Mr.  Kipp  de¬ 
tained  me  in  the  office.” 

“  How  impertinent,”  said  the  lady,  coming  into  the  room 
where  I  was  :  “  Just  to  think,  you  know,  of  the  airs  which 
that  fellow  assumes — a  mere  boy  pretending  to  be  a  man,  you 
know.” 

Here  she  explained  that  he  was  nothing  nor  nobody  but  a 
printer’s  boy,  that  his  name  was  Clarence  Howard,  and  that 
he  was  engaged  in  the  office  of  her  particular  friend,  Josephus 
Kipp,  the  publisher  of  the  Illuminator;  that  for  the  sake  of 
accommodating  said  friend,  Mr.  Josephus  Kipp,  and  also  for 
that  they  were  lone  women — the  mamma  sixty  odd — they  had 
consented  to  furnish  him  with  breakfast  and  tea;  but  the  boy 
was  beginning  to  take  such  advantages  of  their  kindness  as 
would  render  some  assumption  of  dignity,  on  her  part,  neces¬ 
sary  ;  for  Frank  had  no  maaner ,  and  mamma  was  sixty-odd. 
Here  she  went  into  a  senseless  medley  that  I  need  not  repeat, 
composed  mostly  of  ahs  and  ohs,  and  dear-mes,  with  an  inter¬ 
mixture  of  lamentations  over  the  frailty  of  womankind,  her¬ 
self  excepted. 

Frank,  who  had  been  singing  during  the  early  part  of  her 
preparations,  ceased,  and  after  a  little  low-voiced  talk  with  the 
young  man,  appeared,  and  invited  me  to  drink  the  tea  she  had 
made  for  me,  but  the  smile  she  wore  could  not  conceal  the  red¬ 
ness  of  her  eyes. 

She  wisely  limited  her  invitation  to  tea,  for  the  table  afforded 
nothing  beside,  except  three  or  four  mouldy  crackers,  which 
tasted  of  tallow,  and  a  little  preserved  quince,  which  seemed  to 
have  been  made  a  year  or  two.  The  little  appetite  I  might 
have  had  for  such  fare  was  reduced  to  nothing,  when  I  saw  the 
supperless  Clarence  seated  at  the  desk  before-mentioned,  read- 


206 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


ing,  and  eating  of  the  crackers  spoken  of  as  being  in  the  paper 
with  candles. 

I  could  not  help  looking  at  him,  nor  could  Frank,  as  it 
seemed;  at  any  rate  she  did  look  at  him,  though  of  what 
nature  her  interest  was  I  was  not  at  the  time  quite  certain. 

He  was  good  looking,  yet  it  was  not  for  that  that  he  inter¬ 
ested  me,  I  think.  His  dress  was  poor,  meaner  than  that  of 
many  common  laborers,  but  the  effect  of  a  peculiar  beauty  he 
had  seemed  little  impaired  by  it.  I  cannot  describe  him  ;  for  if  I 
said  he  had  great  black  melancholy  eyes,  with  a  bright  spot  in 
either  pale  cheek,  and  brown  wavy  hair  ;  that  he  was  slight, 
and  had  the  sweetest  smile  and  smallest  hands  I  ever  saw,  you 
could  not  make  a  correct  picture.  It  may  be  that  the  interest 
and  belief  of  his  beauty  were  in  part  owing  to  the  circumstances. 
I  had  never  seen  a  handsome  youth  making  a  supper  of  mouldy 
crackers  before,  and  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  that  I  felt  some 
tenderness  for  him  when  he  divided  the  last  one  between  the 
dog  that  sat  at  his  feet,  looking  beseechingly  into  his  face,  and 
the  big  gray  cat  that  sprang  to  his  shoulder  and  locked  his  long 
sleek  tail  about  his  neck. 

Very  poor  and  very  proud  were  the  Hamerslys,  and  they 
preferred  stinting  their  meals  to  using  their  hands  much. 

Miss  Matilda  gave  lessons  in  drawing  for  two  hours  in  the 
day,  and  Frank  was  maid  of  all  work.  As  for  Mrs.  Hamersly, 
she  might  as  well  have  been  a  wooden  machine  in  petticoats 
as  what  she  was  ;  in  the  morning  she  was  dressed  and  at 
night  she  was  undressed,  and  two  or  three  times  in  the  day  her 
chair  was  moved  from  one  place  to  another,  and  sometimes 
her  snuff-box  required  filling,  and  her  pocket  to  be  replenished 
with  the  burnt  pound-cake,  which  Frank  possessed  an  art  of 
making  and  baking  always  in  the  same  style — heavy  and 
deeply,  darkly  brown.  Aside  from  these  things  she  had  no 
needs  that  I  ever  knew  of. 

During  my  tea  drinking,  and  I  lingered  over  it  somewhat  in 
order  to  facilitate  an  acquaintance  with  Clarence,  Matilda  ap¬ 
peared  once  or  twice  at  the  door,  as  though  matters  required 
her  inspection.  At  length  she  informed  me  that  a  gentleman 
was  in  the  parlor  and  very  impatient  to  see  me;  of  course  I 


MY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH. 


207 


affected  to  credit  her  assertion,  and  was  presented  to  her  friend 
Mr.  Josephus  Kipp,  publisher  of  The  Illuminator — a  rotund 
little  personage,  wearing  a  white  waistcoat,  and  having  a 
face  of  pretty  much  the  same  color  ;  a  little  flaxen  hair  on 
the  back  of  his  head,  which  was  bald  in  front;  blue  eyes,  with 
streaks  beneath  them  bluer  than  they ;  no  teeth,  and  hands 
and  feet  inordinately  large. 

He  probably  ate,  and  drank,  and  slept,  and  bought  a  new 
coat  when  his  old  one  wore  out,  but  he  appeared  the  most  ut¬ 
terly  devoid  of  character  of  all  persons  it  was  ever  my  fortune 
to  meet,  reflecting  the  opinions  of  whomever  he  conversed  with 
as  a  certain  lizard  does  the  color  of  the  substance  over  which 
it  crawls. 

“  Well,  Miss  Matilda,”  he  said,  after  some  common-place 
observation  to  me — “  Well,  Miss  Matilda!” 

“  Mr.  Kipp,  well,  ah  well.” 

And  Miss-  Matilda  adjusted  her  skirts  and  bent  forward  her 
head  to  an  attitude  of  the  most  devoted  attention. 

“  Well,  Miss  Matilda.” 

“Ah,  yes,  well,  Mr.  Kipp.” 

“Well,  Miss  Matilda,  it’s  been  a  very  warm  day — yes,  it’s 
been  a  very  warm  day,  Miss  Matilda — it  has  so,  yes,  it  has.” 

“Yes,  Mr.  Kipp,  it’s  been  a  warm  day.” 

“  Yes,  a  very  warm  day,  Miss  Matilda.” 

“Yes,  Mr.  Kipp.” 

“  Mrs.  Ilamersly,  I  was  saying  to  your  daughter  that  it’s 
been  a  warm  day.” 

“  Yes,”  replied  the  lady,  without  opening  her  eyes. 

“  But  Mrs.  Ilamersly,  it’s  been  a  very  warm  day.” 

“  Tilda,  speak  for  me,  dear — be  so  good  as  to  remember, 
Mr.  Kipp,  that  I  am  sixty-odd.” 

And  she  took  snuff,  to  refresh  herself  after  so  unusual  an 
exertion. 

“  I  am  very  thoughtless,  Miss  Matilda,”  said  Mr.  Kipp, 
touched  with  remorse  at  having  shocked  by  a  too  familiar  ap¬ 
proach  the  sensibility  and  dignity  of  the  venerable  and  distin¬ 
guished  lady.  “  Really,  I  am  very  thoughtless.” 

“  Ah  no,  Mr.  Kipp,  you  are  too  severe  upon  yourself — you 


20S 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


nre  not  thoughtless — but  my  mamma  you  know,  she  is  very — 
she  is  sixty  odd,  and  she  feels  so  much,  you  know.” 

“  But  Miss  Matilda,  I  am  so  thoughtless.” 

“  No,  Mr.  Kipp,  i’ll  just  get  behind  the  door  and  cry  if  you 
say  that  again — now  I  just  will.” 

“  No,  Miss  Matilda,  I  ain’t  thoughtless — no,  I  ain’t.” 

Mr.  Kipp  not  only  liked  to  agree  with  everybody  he  con¬ 
versed  with,  but  with  himself  too ;  and  generally  when  he  said 
a  thing  once  he  repeated  it,  to  assure  himself  that  he  agreed 
with  himself. 

“  The  change  we  may  shortly  expect  in  the  weather  will  be 
a  great  shock  to  your  mother,”  he  said  presently. 

“  No,  Mr.  Kipp,  I  think  it  will  do  her  good — the  warm 
weather  is  so  elevating  !” 

“Yes,  Miss  Matilda,  it  will  do  her  good — yes,  it  will  so,  it 
will  do  her  good.  But  I  am  afraid  of  that  shock  I  gave  her, 
Miss  Matilda,  I  am  afraid  of  that.” 

“Now  Mr.  Kipp,  you  bad,  naughty  person — I’ll  just  be  as 
unhappy  now  as  I  can.”  And  putting  her  handkerchief  before 
her  eyes,  she  affected  to  execute  her  purpose. 

Here  Mr.  Kipp  asked  me  if  I  knew  the  reason  of  Miss  Ma¬ 
tilda’s  proposing  to  get  behind  the  door. 

I  said  no,  and  he  informed  me  that  there  was  a  great  attrac¬ 
tion  there.  Whereupon  I  remembered  the  portrait  of  the  gen¬ 
tleman  I  had  noticed  early  in  the  evening. 

“  Now,  Mr.  Kipp,  it ’s  too  bad !”  exclaimed  Miss  Matilda, 
affecting  to  strike  him  with  her  hand,  and  hiding  some  make- 
believe  blushes  for  a  moment,  and  then  explaining  to  me  that 
the  original  of  the  picture  was  only  a  friend. 

“  Miss  Matilda,  they  are  coming  in — every  day  they  are 
coming  in — subscribers,  you  know.  The  Illuminator  is  going 
to  be  a  great  paper — yes,  it’s  going  to  drive  ahead.  And  I  tell 
you  Miss  Matilda,  we  are  going  to  throw  cold  water  on  some 
of  the  scamps  that  object  to  the  new  bridge — for  that  will  be 
the  making  of  our  town.” 

“  Mr.  Kipp,  I  do  n’t  like  to  say,  you  know — being  a  woman! 
you  know  what  I  think,  you  know — it  seems  so  out  of  place, 
and  I  do  n’t  know  hardly — my  mamma  knows  a  great  many 


MY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH. 


209 


things,  and  she  is  opposed  to  the  new  bridge — she  thinks  it  will 
bring  rough  fellows,  you  know,  into  town,  and  corrupt  our 
society — especially  the  female  portion  of  it;  for  my  own  part, 

ah,  oh!’’ - Here  her  voice  was  lost  in  the  rustling  of  her 

skirts,  and  what  Miss  Matilda  thought  on  this  momentous  sub¬ 
ject  will  probably  never  be  known. 

“  And  so  your  mother  thinks,  Miss  Matilda,  the  proposed 
bridge  will  do  more  harm  than  good  ?” 

“  My  mamma,  you  know,  is  decided — she  is  a  woman,  you 
know,  Mr.  Kipp,  of  a  great  deal  of,  of  a  great  deal,  you  know — 
and,  and  when  you  see  her,  Mr.  Kipp,  you  know  her  most 
secret  sentiments:  she  is  opposed  to  the  bridge.’’ 

“  Yes.  Well,  Miss  Matilda,  so  am  I.  If  them  fellows  gets 
it,  they  will  have  to  fight  hard  against  me  and  the  Illuminator. 
Yes,  Miss  Matilda,  they  will  have  to  fight  hard.”  . 

At  this  point  I  lost  some  of  the  profound  discussion,  so  im¬ 
portant  to  the  village — for  through  the  window,  against  which 
I  sat,  I  could  see  Frank  and  Clarence  walking  across  and  across 
the  plank  that  bridged  the  blue  mud — the  youth  appearing 
wofully  dispirited  ;  and  though  the  girl  seemed  trying  to  com¬ 
fort  him,  she  evidently  succeeded  but  ill. 

“  I  wish  I  was  dead,”  I  heard  him  say  repeatedly  ;  “  there  is 
nothing  for  me  to  live  for.” 

“  Oh  no,  Clarence,  that  is  wrong.  One  of  these  days  it  will 
rain  porridge,  and  then,  if  your  dish  is  right  side  up,  how  plea^ 
sant  it  will  be  !” 

“  Nobody  cares  for  me,”  he  replied,  “  and  I  do  n’t  care  for 
myself  any  more.” 

“Well,  I  do  n’t  know  as  any  body  cares  for  me,”  said  the 
girl,  and  her  laughter  indicated  that  it  gave  her  small  trouble 
if  they  did  not. 

“  Just  look  at  these  rags !”  he  said — and  turning  toward  her, 
he  surveyed  himself  from  head  to  foot,  as  if  in  contempt. 

“  And  what  of  it  V  she  asked  ;  “  you  will  get  more  some  way. 
I  have  only  one  dress  beside  this  ;  but  may  be  the  two  will 
last  me  as  long  as  I  shall  live  to  want  them,  and  if  they  do  n’t, 
why  1  shall  get  more,  no  doubt  of  it.”  And  she  laughed  again 
more  heartily  than  before. 


210 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


The  young  man  removed  his  hat,  which  was  of  straw,  though 
it  was  quite  past  the  season  for  straw  hats,  and  pressed  his 
small  hand  against  his  forehead. 

“Are  you  dizzy,  Clarence?”  she  asked. 

“No,”  he  answered;  and  replacing  the  hat  on  his  head,  and 
drawing  it  over  his  brows,  he  locked  his  hands  behind  him,  and 
crossed  and  recrossed  the  plank  which  formed  his  little  prome¬ 
nade,  with  a  hurried  and  irregular  step,  while  the  girl  seated 
herself  on  the  edge  of  the  porch,  and  leaned  her  head  on  her 
hand,  musingly. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  but  at  last  the  youth  paused  before 
her  abruptly,  and  said,  in  a  voice  low  and  almost  tremulous, 
for  he  seemed  naturally  enough  to  suppose  himself  the  subject 
of  her  thoughts,  “  What  are  you  thinking  about,  Frank?” 

“  Oh,  I  was  n’t  thinking  at  all,  I  was  half  a  sleep  ;”  and 
shaking  back  her  curls,  she  arose,  and  went  into  the  house. 

He  looked  after  her  for  a  moment,  and  opening  a  side  gate, 
disappeared. 

I  only  perceived  that  he  was  restless  and  unhappy — only  knew 
that  she  did  not  and  could  not  understand  him — but  I  w^as  dis¬ 
quieted  when  I  saw  them  go  their  separate  ways — he  alone 
into  the  night,  to  wrestle  with  an  ambitious  and  embittered 
soul,  and  she  to  careless  sleep. 

I  was  recalled  by  an  unusual  rustling  of  Miss  Matilda’s 
skirts,  together  with  an  unusual  prudishness  of  manner  and 
affectation  of  tone. 

“  Mr.  Kipp,”  she  said  at  last,  “  I  have  been  wanting  to  ask 
you  something,  so  much  !” 

“  Yes,  well,  Miss  Matilda,  you  want  to  ask  me  something — 
yes,  well,  Miss  Matilda,  a  great  many  ask  me  questions,  a  great 
many  that  want  advice,  Miss  Matilda,  and  a  great  many  that 
do  n’t  want  advice.  The  Illuminator,  Miss  Matilda,  the  Illu¬ 
minator — I  tell  you,  Miss  Matilda,  you  must  write  an  article 
for  it.  I  think  dialogue  would  be  best;  an  article  of  about 
three  columns  and  a  quarter  in  length. 

“  I  think  I  should  prefer  the  essay,”  said  Miss  Matilda. 

“Yes,  the  essay — that’s  what  I  meant — that  would  do — yes, 
yes,  one  of  your  essays.” 


MY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH. 


211 


“But,  Mr.  Kipp.” 

“Well,  Miss  Matilda,  I’m  at  your  service,  and  I’m  just  as 
much  at  the  service  of  every  one.  Yes,  Miss  Matilda,  yes,  I’m 
a  serviceable  man.” 

Mr.  Kipp  could  generally  express  a  wonderful  deal  of  nothing 
with  astonishing  volubility ;  he  had  now  said  something  posi¬ 
tive,  which  came  near  wounding  Miss  Matilda. 

“If  you  are  at  the  service  of  every  one,  Mr.  Kipp,  I  shall  not — 
Oh.  I  don’t  know,  but  I  ’ll  not  feel  the  same,  you  know.” 

“  At  the  service  of  others,  through  the  Illuminator,  and  at 
your  service,  through  the  Illuminator,  too.  I  met  Judge  Morton 
in  the  street  this  morning — you  know  Judge  Morton — he  is  a 
man  of  immense  property.  Well,  I  met  him  this  morning, 
right  the  next  block  to  my  office,  and  says  he,  4  Good  morning, 
Kipp  ;’  and  says  I,  ‘  Good  morning,  Judge  and  says  he,  £  It’s  a 
fair  day,  Kipp  ;’  and  I  says,  4  Yes,  Judge,  it’s  a  fair  day;’  and 
then,  says  he,  ‘  Kipp,’  says  he,  ‘  when  you  established  the  Illu¬ 
minator,  there  were  no  buildings  about  here  like  these’ — and  he 
pointed  in  particular  to  Metcalf’s  new  house ;  and  Metcalf- — 
Senator  Metcalf,  you  know — well,  he  came  to  the  door  while  we 
stood  there,  and  says  he,  4  Good  morning,  Kipp  ;’  and  says  I, 
4  Good  morning,  Metcalf;’  and  after  standing  a  minute,  he  went 
in.  He  wears  blue  trowsers  generally,  but  to-day  he  had  on 
black.  Well,  he  went  in. 

44  After  Morton  and  I  had  talked  sometime  about  national 
affairs,  says  he,  4  Kipp,’  and  says  I,  4  Morton,’  (I  always  omit 
the  judge  in  conversing  with  him,  we  ’re  so  familiar;)  4  Well,’ 
says  he,  4  Kipp,  here ’s  a  little  notice  of  me  that  I  want  you  to 
put  in  the  Illuminator  as  editorial.’  And  says  I,  4  Morton,  at 
your  service.’  Just  what  I  said  to  you,  Miss  Matilda.  And  he 
says  to  me,  says  he,  4  Come  and  dine  with  me,  Kipp,’  says  he; 
4  we  have  always  pork  and  beans,  or  less’ — and  he  went  along 
down  street.” 

44  Quite  a  little  adventure,  was  n’t  it  ]”  said  Matilda. 

44  Yes,  Miss  Matilda,  Judge  Morton  is  a  man  that  lives  here 
right  amongst  us,  and  he  makes  himself  so  agreeable  and  so 
notorious;  and  we  all  know  him,  Miss  Matilda,  that’s  the 
point.  Aes,  Miss  Matilda,  decidedly  an  adventure.” 


212 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


44  But,  Mr.  Kipp — you  know — I — you  know — in  short,  Mr. 
Kipp,  you  never  said  a  wiser  thehing.” 

It  is  difficult  to  represent  with  letters  Miss  Matilda’s  elegant 
and  peculiar  pronunciation,  and  so  for  the  most  part  it  is  left 
to  the  reader’s  imagination. 

44  Yes,  Miss  Matilda,  yes,  I  agree  with  you,  I  never  said  a 
wiser  thing.” 

“  Oh  no,  Mr.  Kipp,  I  made  a  borroad  assertion — you  have  said 
things  that  manifested  more  depth  of  feeling,  more  metaphy¬ 
sical  perspicacity,  you  know.” 

44  Weil,  yes,  Miss  Matilda,  you  are  right — I  have  said  some 
smart  things,  and  yet  not  so  smart  either  as  they  were  radical. 
I  met  Governor  Latham  at  the  Springs  last  summer.  Miss 
Matilda,  did  you  go  to  the  Springs'?  Well,  Miss  Matilda, 
there  were  a  good  many  there  ;  and  as  I  was  saying,  I  met 
Governor  Latham  there — a  little  imaginative  looking  man  he 
is,  and  he  wore  a  white  waistcoat  at  the  Springs.  4  Well’ — says 
he  to  me  one  day — we  had  just  finished  a  segar — I  do  n’t  know 
whether  we  had  been  talking  about  the  Illuminator  or  not, 
but  says  he  to  me,  4  Kipp,’  and  says  I,  4  Latham and  says  he, 
4  Kipp,’  says  he,  ‘you’re  a  rascally  radical !’  And  I  laughed, 
and  Latham  laughed.” 

He  paused,  to  enjoy  his  elevation,  and  then  said,  44  Miss  Ma¬ 
tilda  !” 

44  Yes,  Mr.  Kipp  !” 

44  There  were  a  good  many  at  the  Springs.” 

There  was  another  season  of  fidgeting — a  good  deal  of 
affected  embarrassment  on  the  part  of  the  lady — when  she  said, 
44  You  know  Mr.  Kipp,  I  said,  I  said — oh,  it’s  so  awkward,  you 
know,  for  a  woman  to  approach  a  delicate  matter ;  one  you 
know,  that — that — but  I  have  an  affection,  Mr.  Kipp,  that 
mamma  thinks  requires  medical  treatment.” 

44  An  affection  of  the  heart'?” 

And  Mr.  Kipp  laughed ;  he  had  no  doubt  that  he  had  said  a 
witty  thing. 

44  No,  Mr.  Kipp,”  said  Matilda,  affecting  innocent  unconscious¬ 
ness — 44  Mamma  thinks  it  is  not  the  heart.” 

“  I  wish,  Miss  Matilda,  it  was  the  heart,  and  that  its  affec¬ 
tion  was  for  me!” 


MY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH. 


213 


“  Oh,  you  bad  man  !”  she  exclaimed.  And  this  time  she 
really  went  behind  the  door,  and  pouted  for  a  time,  letting  us 
see  her  all  the  while.  The  movement  did  not  become  Miss 
Matilda  Hamersly  very  well. 

She  was  at  length  brought  forth  by  the  repentant  Mr.  Kipp, 
pulling  away  from  his  hand  much  as  I  have  seen  a  calf  draw¬ 
ing  back  from  the  farmer  who  would  have  put  it  into  a  stable : 
but  she  presently  wiped  her  eyes  and  smiled  again,  saying,  “  I 
believe  1  will  just  ask  you  as  if  you  were  my  brother — we  are 
so  unprotected,  and  have  no  one  to  ask  things,  you  know.” 

“  Do,  Miss  Matilda.” 

“  And  you  won’t  think  anything  V’ 

“  If  I  do,  Miss  Matilda,  may  1  be  shot.” 

“Just  pretend  you  are  my  brother,  you  know.  I  don’t 
know  what ’s  right  for  me  to  do.  I  wish  mamma  would 
tell  me.” 

“  You  do  n’t  know,  Tilda;  well,  I  do  n’t  believe  you  do.” 

“  Well,  Mr.  Kipp,  if  I  was  to  say  anything,  and  if  it  was  to 
be  wrong — knowing  how  lonely  and  unprotected  we  are — would 
you  think  anything  ?” 

“  No,  Tilda — ’pon  my  soul,  I  never  think  anything.”  And 
the  editor  of  the  Illuminator  hitched  his  chair  a  whole  width 
of  carpet  nearer  to  the  diffident  and  excessively  proper  young 
woman. 

“Well  then,  you  are  my  brother,  you  know” — here  she 
looked  at  him  beseechingly,  and  as  though  she  hesitated  yet. 

“  Anything,  Tilda,  I  ’ll  be  anything.” 

“Well  then,  do  you — how  foolish — how  awkward!” — 

“  Yes,  Tilda,  it  is.” 

“  Do  you,  Mr.  -Kipp  ?” 

“Call  me  Josephus,  Tilda.” 

“  How  foolish  I  am — all  in  a  tremor — just  feel !” 

And  she  extended  her  hand  to  Josephus,  who,  having  given 
another  hitch,  retained  it. 

“  Now  I  am  just  going  to  be  as  bold  as  other  girls — may  n’t 
I  be,  Mr. - Josephus — and  you  won’t  think  anything  I” 

Mr.  Kipp  seemed  to  answer  by  a  pressure  of  the  hand,  for 
he  said  nothing. 


214 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“  Do  you  know  folks  in  Henry-street  ?  Tell  me  true  now.” 

“  Why  yes,  Tilda,  1  know  a  good  many  there — I  have  six 
subscribers  in  that  street.  I  met  one  of  them  as  I  was  coming 
here  to-night — Rev.  Dr.  Chandler,  it  was — and  he  said,  ‘  How 
are  you  Kipp  V  and  I  said  ‘  How  are  you1?’  and  he  passed 
up  street,  and  1  came  here.” 

“  Do  you  know  a  family  there  of  the  name  of  Brown  ? 
Now  you  know  you  promised  not  to  think  anything.” 

“Brown,  that  was  commissioner  of  the  peace1?  Yes,  I  pub¬ 
lished  a  didactic  piece  on  the  canal  basin  from  his  pen  a  week 
or  two  ago.  Yes,  Tilda,  I  published  a  poem  from  him.  An 
epic,  it  was.” 

“  Well  Josephus — brother,  do  you  know  Mrs.  Brown  ?” 

“  Yes,  Tilda — not  to  say  well,  however — I  have  met  her 
under  peculiar  circumstances,  and  I  know  her  as  well  as  I  know 
Governor  Latham’s  wife — that  is  to  say,  I  consider  myself 
well  acquainted.” 

“  Is  she  well  ?” 

“  As  to  that,  Tilda,  I  can’t  be  positive.  The  last  time  I  met 
Brown,  says  I,  4  How  are  you,  and  how  is  Mrs.  Brown?’  and 
says  he,  ‘Thank  you,  Kipp ;’  and  I  do  n’t  remember,  as  to  her 
health,  what  he  said.” 

“  Do  you  ever  visit  in  the  family,  or,  I  mean,  have  you  lately  ?” 

“No,  I  have  n’t — yes,  I  have  too — yes,  I  was  there — I  can’t 
say  the  day.” 

“  Howr  many  children  have  'they  ?  Now  you  must  n’t  think 
anything  queer.” 

“They  have  six,  or  seven,  or  eight ;  I  can’t  say  precisely.” 

At  this  point  of  the  conversation  Matilda  covered  up  her 
face,  and  after  two  or  threee  unsuccessful  essays,  actually 
inquired  how  old  was  the  youngest. 

It  might  be  a  year  old,  or  it  might  be  six  months,  or  it  might 
be  three — the  Illuminator  could  not  enlighten  her  more  nearly. 

“  I  cannot  say  more  now,”  said  Matilda.  “  Perhaps  I  had 
best  consult  a  female  friend.  I’ll  ask  my  mamma,  and  do  just 
W'hat  she  says.  I  have  had  some  doubts  about  the  propriety 
of  something  that  it  seems  necessary  for  me  to  do.  Do  n’t  ask 
me  to  explain.” 


MY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH. 


216 


Mrs.  Hamersly  here  took  a  long  survey  of  the  clock  through 
her  glass,  and  Mr.  Kipp  arose  to  go — Miss  Matilda  saying, 
“  Now  do  n’t  teaze  me,  and  do  n’t  think  anything and  he 
replying,  as  he  pressed  her  hand  to  his  heart,  that  he  would  n’t 
tease  her,  and  wouldn’t  think  anything;  and  that  he  would 
teaze  her  and  would  think  something. 

And  so  they  parted — Matilda  saying,  from  the  door,  that  she 
was  afraid  she  had  done  something  wrong;  she  had  talked  so, 
she  did  n’t  know  how ;  and  that  she  believed  she  would  cry 
herself  to  death. 

The  sensation  induced  by  the  editor’s  departure  over,  both 
parties  recurred  to  my  friend  Frank. 

“  Frank  !  Where  is  my  child1?”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hamersly, 
as  if  for  the  first  time  aware  that  the  girl  was  not  present. 

“  Oh,  heavenly  Father  !”  ejaculated  Matilda,  “  I  quite  lost 
sight  of  her  in  my  agitation  on  that — that  theme  that  no  woman 
of  delicacy  could  approach  without  a  shock  to  her  modesty” — 
and  she  floundered  out  of  the  room,  saying,  11  do  n’t  give  way, 
mamma  ;  she  cannot  be  keeping  company  with  that  dreadful 
Ence — she  cannot  so  have  forgotten  propriety — and  after  such 
examples  !  Saints  and  angels  help  us  !” 

“  I’ll  tell  Mr.  Kipp,  see  if  1  do  n’t,  and  that  ungrateful  boy 
shall  be  punished — and  he  has  been  like  a  father  to  him,  and  I 
have  been  like  a  sister — I  ’ll  tell  Mr.  Kipp  how  ungrateful  the 
wretch  is.” 

Frank  was  presently  discovered,  fast  asleep  in  the  kitchen, 
but  Matilda  had  become  so  alarmed  by  the  terrible  apprehen¬ 
sion  that  she  was  talking  with  the  wretch,  Clarence,  that  it  was 
a  long  while  before  she  could  be  quieted.  Young  girls  were  so 
reckless  and  improper — she  was  astonished  that  all  the  gentle¬ 
men  were  not  disgusted — it  was  shocking — it  was  too  bad  to 
talk  about.  She  knew  a  young  lady,  one  that  was  called 
respectable,  too,  that  had  been  seen  in  the  street,  so  it  was 
reported,  wearing  a  low-necked  dress — she  could  n’t  hardly 
believe  it,  and  yet  she  knew  several  persons,  whose  veracity 
she  could  not  doubt,  who  had  told  her  they  had  seen  this  cer¬ 
tain  person  in  the  street,  without  a  bit  of  a  thing  on  her 
neck. 


216 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


A  great  many  scandals  she  repeated,  telling  me  over  and 
over  that  such- things  were  very  repulsive  to  her,  and  that  she 
often  wished  she  could  live  in  some  cave,  away  in  a  desert  or 
a  wilderness,  where  she  could  be  secure  from  the  vile  gossip 
that  now  so  much  afflicted  her. 

When  Frank  had  been  asleep  an  hour,  she  was  wide  awake, 
and  talking,  apparently  with  the  greatest  zest,  about  the  impro¬ 
prieties  of  which  she  had  known  various  persons  to  be  guilty ; 
and  when  Frank  had  been  asleep  two  hours,  she  was  talking 
with  still  greater  animation  than  before.  Midnight  came  and 
went,  and  she  seemed  as  fresh  and  earnest  as  ever.  At  last  she 
asked  me  if  I  had  thought  anything  of  what  she  said  to  Mr. 
ICipp.  She  was  afraid  she  had  overstepped  the  bounds  of 
propriety.  She  was  alarmed,  when  she  thought  of  it.  She 
would  tell  me  all  about  it,  and  ask  my  advice.  So,  sometime 
between  the  hours  of  twelve  and  two,  I  came  to  the  knowledge 
of  Matilda’s  peculiar  difficulty. 

Did  I  think  it  would  be  proper  and  prudent  for  her,  a 
maiden  lady  as  she  was,  to  call  in  the  doctor,  for  advice  in 
reference  to  her  own  ailments,  when  he  passed  by  on  his  visit 
to  Mrs.  Brown,  whose  babe  she  was  sure  could  not  be  more 
than  two  months  old !  This  most  difficult  and  profoundly 
cogitated  question  she  propounded  in  a  whisper. 

Of  course  I  saw  no  impropriety  in  seeing  her  physician,  if 
ill;  but  all  at  once  the  lady  remembered  I  was  a  country 
girl,  and  of  course  did  not  and  could  not  know  what  rigid 
scrutiny  must  accompany  every  action  of  woman  in  a  place 
like  Randolph. 

It  must  have  been  near  daylight  when  I  felt  myself  being 
lifted  into  the  “  litter  of  close-curtained  sleep,”  and  the  sounds 
of  “propriety,”  “female  delicacy,”  “virgin  modesty,”  and  the 
like,  gradually  growing  more  indistinct. 

At  the  end  of  ten  days,  my  acquaintance  with  Clarence  had 
ripened  but  little.  I  had  met  him  every  day  at  breakfast  and 
tea  ;  but  though  we  sometimes  exchanged  glances  of  recogni¬ 
tion,  Matilda’s  presence  completely  interdicted  any  conver¬ 
sation. 


MY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH. 


217 


IV. 

I  noticed  one  evening  that  Clarence  was  unusually  dejected. 

I  heard  him  speak  to  Frank  in  a  low  tone,  and  heard  her 
answer,  “  Oh  never  mind,  Clarence — there  are  four  little  kittens, 
in  a  barrel  in  the  refectory,  come  and  see  them.”  But  he  lighted 
the  tallow  candle,  and  took  up  a  book. 

While  I  was  wishing  that.  I  could  comfort  and  encourage 
him  in  some  way,  there  was  a  rap  at  the  door.  “  Miss  Matilda, 
you  are  looking  well,  yes  you  are  so ;  you  are  looking  exceed- 
well I  heard  a  voice  say.  “  Ah,”  she  replied,  “I  do  n’t  know 
how  it  can  be — I  have  such  cares — to  keep  two  young  girls, 
you  know,  within  the  bounds  of  female  propriety,  is  a  task  that 
is  wearing  me  down.  Do  n’t  I  look  pale  ?” 

“  Yes,  Miss  Matilda,  you  look  pale” — and  then  to  be  quite 
assured  that  he  agreed  with  himself,  he  repeated,  “  Yes,  you 
do  look  pale,  and  it  is  so.” 

Here  was  a  blessed  opportunity  to  escape  ;  Matilda  would 
not  think  of  me  while  Mr.  Kipp  remained  ;  and  as  for  the  mam¬ 
ma,  she  sat  in  state,  and  with  her  eyes  closed,  as  usual :  that 
is,  she  had  the  largest  number  of  soiled  ribbons  about  her, 
and  a  snuff-box  and  piece  of  burnt  pound-cake  in  her  hands.  And 
Frank  was  busy  in  an  obsure  corner,  trying  to  pull  down  her 
stockings,  so  as  to  conceal  the  holes  in  the  heels.  Under  such 
a  combination  of  circumstances,  I  actually  eluded  an  arrest  in 
my  passage  from  the  parlor  to  the  kitchen.  A  part  of  the 
afternoon  and  all  the  evening  the  rain  had  been  falling,  and  as 
neither  roof  nor  windows  of  the  kitchen  were  water-proof,  the 
old  place  looked  more  dismal  than  common.  There  were 
damp  patches  in  the  wall,  and  puddles  standing  in  the  floor, 
and  the  little  fire  was  dying  out  under  the  gradual  dropping. 

Clarence  sat  at  the  desk  where  I  had  left  him,  the  book  open 
before  him ;  but  he  seemed  not  to  be  reading,  nor  yet  to  be 
aware  that  the  gathering  rain  was  falling  on  him  where  he  sat. 
At  first  he  was  shy  and  incommunicative,  but  I  was  inter¬ 
ested  in  him,  and  more  than  willing  to  do  him  service,  so,  after 
a  while  I  won  my  way  to  his  confidence. 

I  laid  the  embers  together,  and  we  drew  our  chairs  to  the 

10 


218 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


hearth,  and  while  the  rain  pattered  its  lullaby,  he  told  me  the 
story  of  his  life. 

His  mother,  whom  he  scarcely  remembered,  was  dead ;  his 
father,  a  profligate  and  thriftless  man,  hired  him  about  in  one 
place  and  another,  while  he  was  yet  a  boy,  and  now  that  he 
was  grown  to  manhood,  still  lived  mainly  upon  his  wages. 

Kept  always  at  servile  employment,  and  deprived  of  the 
little  compensation  he  should  have  received,  his  spirit  had  been 
gradually  broken,  and  his  ambition  lost.  No  one  cared  enough 
for  him  to  say  do  this,  or  that,  or  why  do  you  thus  or  so  h 
He  had  drifted  about,  doing  what  chance  threw  in  his  way ; 
and  was  now  standing  on  the  verge  of  manhood,  aimless  and 
hopeless.  He  liked  books,  and  read,  but  without  system  or 
object ;  to  work,  or  “  draw  water  in  a  sieve,”  were  all  one  to 
him  ;  “  It  matters  not  what  I  undertake,”  he  said,  “  I  can’t  get 
along.” 

“Your  heart  is  not  in  your  duties,”  I  answered. 

“No — how  can  it  b el  look  at  me;  I  have  no  clothes  but 
these.” 

“  You  can  easily  get  others.” 

“  No :  whether  I  earn  much  or  little  it  is  taken  from  me  Sat¬ 
urday  night — all  except,  indeed,  enough  to  clothe  me  as  I  am, 
and  to  pay  for  the  miserable  pittance  I  have  here.” 

“  And  where  do  you  sleep  ?” 

“  On  the  waste  paper  in  the  printing  office.” 

A  sorry  enough  prospect,  I  felt,  but  there  was  hope  yet.  I 
could  not  advise  him  to  abandon  his  parent,  altogether,  though 
I  thought  it  would  not  be  wrong  for  him  to  do  so  ;  but  I  urged 
him  to  retain  for  himself  a  portion  of  all  he  earned,  and  to 
obtain  somewhere  else  meals  that  would  be  a  little  more  sub¬ 
stantial. 

-At  this  suggestion  he  hesitated  and  blushed ;  there  was  no 
need  of  a  confession — he  was  more  than  half  in  love  with 
Frank. 

What  a  mystery,  I  thought;  she  is  so  unlike  him;  but  on 
consideration  the  riddle  was  revealed — she  had  been  as  kind 
to  him  as  she  knew  how  to  bo.  I  am  but  an  indifferent  com¬ 
forter  and  counsellor,  i  fear,  and  vet  it  was  astonishing  to  see 


MY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH. 


219 


how  the  youth  rallied ;  it  must  have  been  a  sense  of  sympa¬ 
thy  that  helped  him :  nothing  else. 

At  ten  o’clock,  or  thereabouts,  our  conference  was  broken 
off  by  the  abrupt  entrance  of  Matilda.  Her  astonishment,  on 
seeing  us  both  seated  on  one  hearth,  though  the  hearth  was  am¬ 
ple  enough  to  accommodate  a  dozen  persons,  was  so  great  that 
she  fainted,  or  at  least  fell  into  the  arms  of  Clarence,  and  said 
she  swooned. 

The  lecture  I  received  for  this  indiscretion  I  need  not  repeat, 
but  I  may  say  that  I  never  discovered  any  unwillingness  on  the 
part  of  Miss  Matilda  Hamersly  to  converse  with  Clarence 
Howard  or  any  other  man,  old  or  young,  wise  or  witless.  It 
was  a  disagreeable  duty,  she  said,  that  of  entertaining  gentle¬ 
men — Frank  being  a  mere  child,  and  mamma  sixty-odd.  “  Oh, 
I  wish  you  girls  were  old  enough  to  take  the  responsibility,” 
she  was  in  the  habit  of  saying,  when  visitors  came,  “  I  am  so 
averse  to  gentlemen’s  society.” 

This  awful  outrage  of  propriety,  that  is,  the  confidential  con¬ 
ference  which  Clarence  and  I  had  in  the  kitchen,  resulted,  in  a 
day  or  two,  in  the  dismissal  of  Clarence  from  the  house. 

“  And  yet,”  said  Matilda,  “  there  is  one  thing  I  like  the  boy 
for — he  never  speaks  to  me.” 

This  ejectment  was  painful  to  Clarence,  I  knew,  but  he  endu¬ 
red  it  better  than  I  had  hoped  ;  lie  had  now  a  prospect  of  a  few 
shillings  ahead,  and  there  is  no  influence  that  stays  up  the  hands 
like  this. 

“You  must  not  forget  me,  Frank,”  he  said  in  a  voice  that 
was  a  little  unsteady,  and  holding  her  hand  close  in  his. 

“  Oh  no,”  she  replied  ingenuously  ;  “  our  milk-man  was  gone 
once  two  years,  and  when  he  came  back  I  knew  him ;  but 
do  n’t  squeeze  my  hand  so,  Clarence.” 

He  left  his  books  on  the  shelf  till  he  should  find  a  new  home, 
he  said ;  but  rather,  I  suspected,  as  a  sort  of  link  that  bound  him 
to  the  cottage. 

In  the  course  of  Miss  Matilda’s  perigrinations  about  town,  she 
became  acquainted  with  an  impish  youth,  who  interested  her, 
she  said,  for  reasons — in  fact — in  short — really,  she  did  n’t 
know — he  had  one  great  fault — he  liked  the  ladies — a  disposi- 


220 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


tion  that  should  be  curbed  by  somebody — and  who  could  do  it 
but  she.  They  were  so  unprotected — -only  females  in  the 
house — for  their  safety,  it  was  necessary  to  have  a  man  about, 
of  nights.  She  wished  she  was  like  other  women — less  timid, 
and  less  averse  to — but  she  could  n’t  help  it. 

All  this  Miss  Matilda  conveyed  to  the  knowledge  of  Mr. 
Kipp ;  and  also  hinted,  that  the  new  man  would  more  than  sup¬ 
ply  the  place  of  Clarence  in  the  office  of  the  Illuminator,  and  at 
the  same  time  he  could  take  tea  and  breakfast  with  them,  and 
so  afford  the  protection  that  woman  must  have,  however  averse 
her  feelings  were  to  so  much  as  the  touch  of  a  gentleman’s 
finger,  even,  to  her  apron  string. 

“But  does  he  know  anything  of  types  1” 

“  Oh,  1  forgot  to  say  I  heard  he  was  half  a  printer.” 

“  Well,  Miss  Matilda,”  said  Mr.  Kipp,  “your  advice  is  always 
good,  and  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  I  saw  the  person  you 
speak  of  as  I  was  coming  here  to-night — tall,  was  he,  Miss 
Matilda  ?” 

“  No,  Mr.  Kipp,  he  was  short.” 

“  My  name  is  Josephus,  Tilda.  And  you  say  he  is  short?” 

“  Yes,  Josephus.” 

“  And  has  he  black  hair?” 

“  No,  Josephus,  red.” 

“And  his  face  is  pale,  ain’t  it?” 

“  No,  Josephus,  red  and  brown.” 

“Well,  I’ve  seen  him — at  the  Springs,  or  Governor  La¬ 
tham’s,  or  somewhere.  Yes,  I  have  seen  him — yes,  I  know  I 
have  seen  him.  Miss  Matilda !” 

“Josephus.” 

“I’ve  seen  him,  Miss  Matilda.” 

The  night  following,  the  impish  young  man  satin  the  parlor, 
conversing  with  all  the  wisdom  of  gray  hairs,  with  Miss  Ma¬ 
tilda.  She  was  no  doubt  trying  to  wean  him  from  his  liking  for 
the  ladies.  And  poor  Clarence — under  the  weight  of  his  new 
discouragement,  was  heavy  enough  at  heart. 

We  were  gathering  berries,  Frank  and  I,  in  the  woods  adjoin¬ 
ing  Randolph,  when  we  discovered  Clarence  sitting  on  a  decayed 
log,  his  eyes  bent  on  the  ground,  and  his  cheek  hollow  and 


MY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH. 


221 


pale.  When  he  saw  us,  he  did  not  approach,  as  we  expected, 
but  turned  instead  into  the  thicker  woods. 

We  playfully  rallied  him,  for  thus  abandoning  two  unpro¬ 
tected  females,  and  finally  succeeded  in  making  him  laugh. 

He  had  been  idling  about  for  several  days,  not  knowing  and 
scarcely  caring  what  was  to  become  of  him.  I  encouraged  him 
to  new  efforts,  and  he  grew  cheerful  and  hopeful,  and  promised 
when  we  parted  from  him  at  night,  that  he  would  try  once 
more.  But  I  am  now  inclined  to  think  it  was  Frank,  who  had 
said  nothing,  rather  than  I,  who  had  said  much,  who  induced 
the  brave  resolution.  He  found  difficulty  in  executing  it,  how¬ 
ever.  There  were  opportunities  enough  for  other  lads,  who 
seemed  to  have  nothing  special  to  recommend  them,  but  when 
he  applied,  employers  hesitated. 

“You  are  the  boy  who  was  with  Kipp,  they  said.  “  Why, 
he  is  a  good  fellow,  could  n’t  you  get  along  with  him  V 

Of  course,  Clarence  could  only  say  Mr.  Kipp  had  always 
been  kind  and  generous  to  him ;  thus  taking  on  himself  all 
the  fault  of  his  discharge  from  the  editor’s  service. 

The  employers  then  said  they  would  think  of  his  proposal, 
or  that  they  had  partly  engaged  another  lad,  or  they  made 
some  other  excuse,  that  sent  him  sorrowful  aw'ay. 

At  last  his  quest  was  successful  ;  he  obtained  in  the  Ran¬ 
dolph  post-office  a  situation  as  clerk. 

For  a  fortnight  or  so  all  w*ent  on  well.  Clarence  looked 
smiling  and  happy  ;  a  new  hat  and  new  pair  of  boots  took  the 
places  of  the  old  ones  ;  his  cheek  wras  growing  rounder,  and  his 
eyes  losing  something  of  their  melancholy. 

The  postmaster  said,  so  it  was  reported,  that  he  never 
wranted  a  better  boy  in  his  employ  than  Clarence;  the  young 
women  smiled  when  they  met  him,  and  the  sun  to  his  vision  vras 
a  great  deal  bigger  and  brighter  than  it  had  ever  been  before. 
That  was  the  little  heyday  of  his  life. 

There  was  great  excitement  in  the  town  of  Randolph  one 
morning.  Groups  of  men  were  seen  talking  at  the  corners  of 
the  streets  and  before  the  doors  of  groceries  ;  at  first  in  whis¬ 
pers,  but  gradually  louder  and  louder,  till  there  was  one  gene¬ 
ral  hum.  Young  lads,  who  had  never  been  known  to  smoke, 


222 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


bought  cigars,  which  they  both  gave  away  and  used  freely 
themselves  :  they  felt  suddenly  lifted  up  into  the  importance 
of  manhood,  and  bitter  denunciations  fell  from  many  a  beard¬ 
less  lip. 

A  dozen  or  more  women  might  have  been  seen  leaning  from 
the  windows  of  their  homes,  half  way  into  the  street,  and  one 
of  them  was  Miss  Matilda  Hamersly. 

And  among  the  lads  who  were  smoking,  and  throwing  more 
stones  at  the  stray  dogs  than  usual,  was  Miss  Malinda’s  protege, 
Ebenezer  Rakes — “  Neeze,”  as  the  patroness  called  him.  At 
length,  in  answer  to  the  beckoning  of  her  lily  hand,  he  ap¬ 
proaches,  and  as  she  leans  still  lower  from  the  window,  informs 
her  that  Clar  Howard  has  been  took  up  and  shot  up  in  jail,  for 
abstracting  a  thousand  dollars  from  a  letter,  which  was  lying  in 
the  Randolph  post-office. 

“  Good  heavens  !”  exclaims  Matilda  ;  “I  always  expected  as 
much — he  had  such  a  bad  look  in  his  eyes !  Did  you  see  the 
constable  take  him  V’ 

“  Yes,  I  seen  him  took,  but  he  was  n’t  took  by  the  constable; 
he  was  took  by  the  sheriff’s  warrant ;  they  tied  his  hands  with 
a  rope,  and  he  tried  to  hide  ’em  under  his  coat  as  he  went 
along,  but  he  could  n’t  come  it.” 

“  Did  he  seem  to  feel  bad  V*  asked  Matilda. 

“He  shed  some  crokadile  tears,  I  b’leeve,”  said  “Neeze,” 
“but  them  as  took  him  would  n’t  ontie  him  for  that.  If  I  had 
had  my  way,  I ’d  a  strung  him  up  on  the  nearest  tree,  and 
made  an  example  of  him.” 

“It’s  a  wonder,”  says  Matilda,  “that  he  never  took  anything 
here ;  he  was  among  us  just  as  one  of  the  family,  just  as  you 
are,  Neeze.” 

Neeze  says  he  would  advise  an  examination  of  the  valuables 
belonging  to  the  house,  and  Matilda  hopes  he  will  be  home 
early  at  night — they  are  so  unprotected — she  shall  be  afraid  if 
a  little  mouse  stirs.  And  with  this  appeal,  in  her  tenderest 
tone,  she  withdraws  that  portion  of  her  person  into  the  house 
which  has  previously  been  in  the  street,  counts  the  teaspoons, 
and  repeats  the  newrs  ;  after  which  she  runs  across  the  garden, 


MY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH. 


223 


and  by  the  back  way  enters  the  domicile  of  Mrs.  Lowe,  who  is 
still  looking  and  listening. 

“Frank,  my  child,  move  my  chair  a  bit  nearer  the  wall,” 
says  Mrs.  Hamersly ;  and  this  is  her  only  demonstration  of 
interest  in  the  matter. 

“  I  wonder  if  it’s  dark,  where  he  is1?”  says  Frank,  “  and  what 
Mr.  Kipp  will  say?” 

Air.  Kipp,  as  publisher  of  the  Illuminator,  is  the  one  man  of 
all  the  world,  to  her ;  there  will  be  a  paragraph  in  his  journal ; 
she  will  read  it  with  more  interest  than  she  feels  in  similar 
paragraphs  generally,  for  that  Clarence  used  to  live  with 
them.  So,  having  wondered  what  Mr.  Kipp  will  say,  she 
takes  the  milk  pan  to  the  “  court,”  and  the  lean  cats  break¬ 
fast  from  it. 

In  the  course  of  the  day,  Matilda  took  the  books  which 
belonged  to  Clarence  from  the  accustomed  shelf,  with  the 
express  intention  of  burning  them.  It  required  all  my  efforts 
to  dissuade  her,  but  I  did  so  at  length,  though  she  would  not 
listen  to  my  assurance  that  he  would  reclaim  them  before  long ; 
for  I  could  not  be  persuaded  of  his  guilt. 

Agreeably  to  the  promise  obtained  of  his  patroness,  Neeze 
came  home  early  that  night,  and  it  seemed  that  the  two  would 
never  have  done  talking  of  the  robbery. 

Half  past  nine  came,  and  Airs.  Hamersly,  as  usual,  eyed  the 
clock  through  her  glass;  but  Alatilda  would  not  see  it;  ten 
came,  and  still  they  talked — five,  ten,  fifteen  minutes  more. 

“  My  child,  I  shall  go  into  convulsons,”  said  the  mamma,  in 
her  customary  passionless  tone. 

“  The  saints  protect  us !”  cried  Alatilda,  and  she  held  up  her 
apron  as  a  screen. 

From  this  night  forward,  the  wrinkled  face  of  Matilda  was 
often  seen  near  the  downy  cheek  of  the  boy,  Neeze.  There 
was  evidently  a  great  and  growing  interest  between  them, 
partly  based  upon  the  accusation  of  poor  Clarence,  and  partly 
on  the  rumor  that  Mr.  Kipp  was  suddenly  enamored  of  a  rich 
and  beautiful  girl  of  twenty. 

This  last  report,  if  true,  was  fatal  to  all  the  lady’s  hopes, 
though  she  often  said  she  could  not  believe  it,  inasmuch  as  he 


224 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


had  ever  seemed  to  sympathize  so  perfectly  with  all  her  feelings, 
especially  with  her  aversion  to  the  marriage  state. 

But  facts  are  truly  stubborn  things,  and  will  make  head 
against  a  great  many  probabilities  and  possibilities,  and  Miss 
Matilda’s  faith  in  Mr.  Kipp’s  celibate  intentions  was  broken  at 
last — utterly  dissipated,  under  the  following  circumstances. 

After  a  cessation  of  visits  for  a  time,  Mr.  Kipp  once  more 
honored  Mrs.  Hamersly’s  house  with  his  presence. 

“  You  must  have  been  very  happy  of  late — I  hope  you  have 
been,  I  am  sure  said  Matilda,  seating  herself  further  from  the 
illuminated  gentleman  than  she  was  wont,  and  speaking  without 
her  usual  affectations — she  was  too  much  in  earnest. 

“Well,  yes,  Miss  Matilda;  I  met  my  friend  Doane  this 
morning,  one  of  the  richest  men  in  town  here.  Do  you  know 
Doane?” 

“  1  do  not.” 

“Well,  Miss  Matilda,  I’d  been  writing  letters  before  I  set 
out:  one  to  Mr.  Johnson,  of  Massachusetts,  and  one  to  some¬ 
body,  I  forget  who.  Well,  I  met  Doane,  and  he  is  a  good- 
natured  fellow,  Doane  is ;  and  says  he,  ‘  How  are  you  Kipp  V 
and  says  I,  ‘Doane  I’m  glad  to  see  you;’  and  says  he — no, 
says  I,  then — no,  I  forget  what  I  said ;  and  then  says  he,  ‘  You 
look  happy,  Kipp.’  And  I  laughed,  and  Doane  laughed. 
Doane  is  a  shrewd  fellow,  Miss  Matilda — he’s  independent.” 

“  Ah  !”  said  Miss  Matilda. 

“  Yes,  he  is  a  cunning  fellow ;  yes,  he  is  so.” 

A  long  silence. 

“  Miss  Matilda,”  says  Mr.  Kipp,  at  last. 

“  Well,  sir,”  she  answers,  biting  her  lip. 

“  Miss  Matilda.” 

“  Well,  sir,”  more  decidedly. 

“  I  think  there  will  be  rain,  Miss  Matilda.” 

“  I  do  not,  sir.” 

“Well,  nor  J,  Miss  Matilda;  I  would  n’t  be  surprised  if  it 
didn’t  rain  for  a  month  :  No,  l  would  n’t.  Miss  Matilda.” 

“  Say  on  sir,”  she  said,  with  a  voice  and  look,  into  which 
were  thrown  all  the  dignity  of  the  Hamerslys. 

“  I  would  n’t  be  surprised.” 


MY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH. 


225 


“  What  would  surprise  you,  Mr.  Kipp  V’ 

“  Why,  for  instance,  Miss  Matilda,  it  would  surprise  me  if 
you  were  to  get  married  !” 

“  What  do  you  mean,  sirl” 

“  Why,  Miss  Matilda,  I  mean — in  fact,  I  mean,  it  would  not 
surprise  me  in  the  least.” 

“  I  suppose  you  think  you  could  get  married  V'  said  Matilda, 
“  and  I  am  sure  I  do  n’t  care  how  soon  you  do  so.” 

“  No,  Miss  Matilda,  I  could  n’t  get  married  if  I  wanted  to.” 

“  What,  Mr.  Kipp  I”  in  tones  slightly  softened. 

“  I  could  n’t  Miss  Matilda — nobody  would  have  me.” 

“  How  strange  you  do  talk,”  said  the  lady,  a  little  tender 
ness  thrown  suddenly  into  her  voice. 

“  It ’s  a  fact.” 

“  Now,  Mr.  Kipp,  you  know  better !”  in  quavers  positively 
sweet. 

It ’s  a  fact,  Miss  Matilda.” 

“  Mamma,  wake  up,  and  look  at  naughty  Mr.  Kipp,  and  see 
if  he  ain't  crazy.  I  do  believe  you  are  out  of  your  head.”  And 
she  stooped  over  him  gracefully,  and  laid  her  hands  on  his  fore¬ 
head. 

“  Well,  Miss  Matilda,  what  do  you  think  V1 

“  Really,  Josephus,  I  do  n’t  know — it  seems  so  queer — I 
wish  mamma  would  wake  up — I  can’t  tell  whether  men  are  in 
their  head  or  not;  mamma’s  sixty-odd,  and  she — oh,  she  knows 
a  great  many  things  :  but  Josephus,  look  right  in  my  eyes,  and 
tell  me  why  you  can’t  get  married.”  And  she  bent  down  very 
fondly,  and  very  closely. 

One  moment  of  blessed  expectancy,  and  the  last  venture 
was  wrecked.  Mr.  Kipp  could  n’t  marry,  because  he  had  already 
taken  the  pretty  and  rich  young  lady  “  to  hold  and  to  keep.” 

“  I  am  sure  I  wish  you  well,”  Matilda  said,  with  her  former 
asperity  of  manner— “  I  would  n’t  lay  a  straw  in  the  girl’s  way 
if  I  could.” 

Iler  hands  dropt  from  the  forehead  of  Mr.  Josephus  Kipp,  as 
she  made  this  benevolent  declaration  ;  and  she  all  at  once 
remembered  that  Mr.  Rakes  had  not  yet  had  supper  ! 

“  I  am  sure,”  she  said  an  hour  afterwards,  to  that  wise  young 

10* 


220 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


person,  “  Mrs.  Kipp,  as  I  suppose  she  calls  herself,  ought  to 
have  money  ;  she  had  n’t  much  else  to  recommend  her.” 

That  night  the  gossipping  was  more  bitter,  and  of  longer  con¬ 
tinuance  than  before.  Matilda  believed,  she  said,  there  was 
not  a  single  woman  in  Randolph  but  who  would  get  married  if 
she  could,  and  that  was  all  she  wanted  to  know  about  them ; 
for  herself,  she  wished  all  the  men  had  to  live  one  side  of  the 
town  and  all  the  women  the  other;  and  she  appealed  to 
Neeze,  to  know  if  it  would  not  be  nice;  upon  which  Neeze 
threw  the  cigar  from  his  mouth,  and  drew  his  chair  up  to  Miss 
Matilda,  in  order  to  favor  her  with  the  expression  of  his 
opinions  on  this  interesting  topic. 

Mrs.  Hamersly  was  again  outraged.  She  did  n’t  care,  she 
said,  if  they  sat  up  all  night,  and  kept  the  house  in  an  uproar, 
when  she  was  dead ;  they  need  only  wait  till  she  was  decently 
buried  ;  that  was  all  she  asked. 

At  last  Mrs.  Hamersly  chanced  to  open  her  eyes  one  night, 
and  see  the  hand  of  Matilda,  that  pattern  of  propriety,  around 
the  neck  of  Ebenezer  Rakes  !  The  lady’s  spirit  was  now  fully 
roused,  the  dignity  of  the  house  must  be  maintained,  and  she 
would  maintain  it  at  some  little  cost.  Mr.  Rakes  was  summa¬ 
rily  dismissed  from  the  premises,  and  Matilda’s  clothing  care¬ 
fully  locked  away,  and  the  door  of  her  chamber  nailed  up  every 
night. 

I  need  not  linger  over  details  ;  a  night  or  two  of  this  impris¬ 
onment,  and  Frank  and  I  awoke  from  sleep  one  morning,  to 
find  the  bed-cord  dangling  from  the  window,  and  Matilda  gone. 
Mr.  Rakes  was  found  missing  too.  That,  “  with  an  unthrift 
love  they  had  run  from  Randolph,”  there  could  be  no  doubt. 

Frank  wondered  what  Mr.  Kipp  would  say  when  he  heard 
of  it,  and  stepped  into  Matilda’s  place  in  giving  drawing  les¬ 
sons  ;  and  said  she  thought  there  would  be  some  way  to  get 
along. 

Clarence  was  soon  at  liberty,  for  there  was  no  proof  of 
his  guilt  discovered,  but  he  could  not  be  free  from  the  stigma 
that  attached  to  him. 

The  town’s  folks  were  distrustful,  and  looked  upon  him  curi¬ 
ously  as  he  went  abroad ;  few  would  employ  him,  and  those 


MY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH. 


227 


who  did,  watched  him  narrowly.  He  could  not  live  so,  and 
formed  the  resolution,  which,  under  the  circumstances,  was  a 
very  brave  one,  of  going  into  a  strange  place,  to  seek  his 
fortune. 

When  he  told  us,  Frank  and  I,  she  said  it  would  be  a  nice 
thing,  and  I  could  not  dissuade  him,  nor  encourage,  more  than 
to  say  “  the  world  was  all  before  him,  where  to  choose,”  and  I 
wished  him  heartily  success  and  happiness. 

It  was  useless  to  say  there  were  other  places  as  good  as  Ran¬ 
dolph,  and  that  he  would  make  other  and  better  friends  :  he 
knew  no  other  world,  and  all  he  loved  was  there. 

A  mile  to  the  south  of  the  village  stood  the  stump  of  an  elm 
tree,  white  as  silver,  for  the  bark  was  gone,  and  it  had  been 
bleaching  there  many  years. 

“  Go  with  me  to  the  elm  stump,”  he  said,  when  he  was  ready 
to  set  out.  It  was  night — for  he  had  waited,  that  no  one  might 
remark  his  going — damp  and  cloudy,  nor  moon,  nor  star  in 
sight.  Over  his  shoulder  he  carried  a  budget,  containing  a  few 
books  and  all  the  clothes  he  had.  The  road  was  dusty,  and  we 
walked  on  in  silence,  for  there  seemed  nothing  more  to  say ; 
so  the  tree  was  reached  before  we  had  exchanged  half  a  dozen 
words. 

He  looked  toward  the  next  hill,  as  we  paused,  as  if  he  would 
ask  us  to  proceed,  but  presently  said,  “  No,  it’s  no  use,  I  would 
never  be  ready  to  go  on  alone.” 

While  we  stood  there  a  beggar  passed,  looking  lean  and 
hollow-eyed.  He  reached  his  hand  toward  us,  and  Clarence 
seeing  his  rags,  sadly  said  to  us,  “  I  shall  look  that  way  one 
of  these  days.” 

Before  we  separated,  he  untied  the  bundle  spoken  of,  and 
taking  out  two  old  and  worn  volumes,  gave  each  of  us  one, 
saying,  as  he  wiped  them  with  his  hand,  “They  will  remind 
you  of  me  sometimes,  maybe.” 

With  many  of  the  best  qualities  of  the  heart,  and  the  finest 
instincts  of  intelligence,  poor  Clarence,  it  was  easy  to  see,  had 
little  of  that  bravery  of  nature  which  is  indispensable  to  suc¬ 
cess  in  the  world  ;  and  observing  with  what  spirit  he  set  out 
on  his  quest  for  fortune,  it  was  easy  to  perceive  that  there  was 


223 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


really  no  brightness  before  him,  so  that  this  twilight  parting 
which  he  had  arranged  with  my  friend  Frank  and  myself,  was 
indescribably  sad  to  me,  who  felt  far  more  anxious  for  the 
youth’s  happiness  than  Frank  had  ever  felt,  or  was  capable  of 
feeling. 

Poor  Clarence !  there  was  a  defect  in  his  nature — a  very 
common  defect — fatal  to  all  growth,  and  destructive  of  every 
element  of  success,  or  even  of  nobleness  in  aspiration  or  in 
conduct.  Like  many  young  men  encountered  every  day,  lag¬ 
ging  behind  ambitious  crowds,  he  had  some  fine  instincts,  with 
vague  perceptions  of  beauty,  and  generous  affections ;  but  of 
one  thing  he  was  lacking  still,  and  always,  Will,  the  parent  of 
faith  and  energy.  How  frequent  are  the  instances  in  which 
a  single  brave  and  persistent  effort  would  raise  one’s  life  from 
all  the  quicksands  and  shoals  which  environ  the  youth  of  so 
great  a  majority,  into  the  clear  sea,  over  which  blow'  forever 
prosperous  gales  !  Cowardice,  despondency,  inertia,  were  never 
startled  from  their  ascendency  in  Clarence’s  soul  by  even  a 
half-trial  of  his  powers ;  and  it  might  have .  been  foretold, 
therefore,  that  his  going  out  into  the  world  would  be  in  vain. 
When,  in  emergencies  which  most  demand  it,  we  see  evinced 
no  will  — such  as  has  that  power  the  Master  said  belonged  to 
faith — it  is  well  to  put  on  our  mourning :  it  wrere  quite  as  well 
with  the  poor,  if,  instead,  there  were  an  end  of  life. 

Long  after  Frank  was  asleep  that  night,  I  lay  thinking  of 
Clarence — wrondering  how  far  he  had  got  now,  and  now;  and 
saying,  now,  that  he  might  come  back,  and  be  with  us  again  in 
the  morning.  But  he  never  came  back. 

Though  I  so  perfectly  understood  his  infirmities,  which  for¬ 
bade  any  reasonable  expectation  of  a  happy  future  for  him,  his 
better  qualities  so  deeply  interested  my  feelings,  that  in  fancy 
I  still  shaped  out  a  bright  future  for  him — of  his  sometime  com 
ing  home  to  Randolph,  a  great  man,  whom  the  people  could 
not  praise  and  honor  enough. 

It  was  one  day  in  the  following  spring,  that,  tired  of  working 
in  the  flower-beds,  I  stopped  to  rest  in  the  faint  shadow  of  the 
newly  budding  lilac.  A  scrap  of  newspaper  held  my  flower- 
seeds  ;  I  emptied  them  in  my  lap,  and,  as  my  habit  is,  read, 


MY  VISIT  TO  RANDOLPH. 


229 


to  amuse  my  idleness,  whatever  the  fragment  contained  ;  and 
thus,  by  such  chance,  I  learned  all  I  have  ever  learned  of  Clar¬ 
ence’s  fate :  he  had  died  months  before  in  one  of  the  southern 
cities. 

As  I  planted  my  flowers,  I  wished  that  I  might  plant  them 
on  his  grave ;  but  their  frail  leaves  could  not  have  sheltered 
him  better  than  he  was,  and  is. 

The  postmaster  of  Randolph  was  ultimately  convicted  of  the 
theft  attributed  to  his  clerk,  whose  name,  too  late,  was  freed 
from  a  blot. 


230 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


WHY  MOLLY  ROOT  GOT  MARRIED. 

I. 

Some  years  ago  there  lived  in  Clovernook  a  family  of  the 
name  of  Trowbridge — very  worthy  people,  but  not  without 
some  of  the  infirmities  which  belong  to  human  nature.  There 
was  scarcely  a  woman  about  the  village  better  known  than 
Mrs.  Trowbridge,  though  I  have  not  before  had  occasion  to 
mention  her.  And  she  was  as  well  liked  as  she  was  well 
known — every  body  saying,  What  a  dear  good  woman  she  is  ! 
and  I  among  the  rest.  I  had  often  said  I  would  like  to  live 
with  her,  for  she  seemed  the  most  amiable  and  agreeable  per¬ 
son  in  the  world.  It  was  always  a  good  day  when  she  made 
us  a  visit.  She  laughed,  when  asking  if  we  were  well,  and 
laughed  when  saying  she  herself  was  well.  She  laughed  if  a 
common  friend  were  married,  and  laughed  if  a  common  friend 
were  dead ;  she  laughed  if  her  baby  was  getting  teeth,  and 
laughed  if  her  baby  was  not  getting  teeth ;  if  her  new  dress 
was  right  pretty  she  laughed,  if  it  was  right  ugly  she  laughed 
all  the  same.  When  she  came,  she  laughed  heartily,  and  when 
she  went  she  laughed  heartily — it  was  the  way  she  made  her¬ 
self  agreeable. 

Many  a  time  I  had  said  I  should  like  to  live  with  Mrs.  Trow¬ 
bridge,  for  she  never  had  anything  to  fret  or  worry  about,  and 
I  liked  best  of  all  things  an  atmosphere  of  rest.  I  was  de¬ 
lighted  therefore  when  some  changes  going  on  in  our  old  home¬ 
stead  led  to  a  decision  that  I  should  for  a  while  reside  in  her 
family. 

But  good  Mrs.  Trowbridge  is  not  to  be  so  much  the  heroine 
of  this  chapter  as  Molly  Root,  a  relation  of  her  husband. 
Molly  had  been  driven  about  the  world,  poor  and  homeless, 
until  lodged,  at  last,  in  what  most  of  us  thought  the  very  bo- 


WHY  MOLLY  ROOT  GOT  MARRIED. 


231 


som  of  domestic  felicity — the  domestic  circle  of  this  best- 
natured  woman  in  our  society. 

For  the  first  two  days  after  my  domestication,  I  was  relieved 
of  all  suspicion  of  the  real  state  of  things,  by  one  continual 
flow  of  laughter.  My  occupancy  of  the  best  room  in  the  house, 
and  of  the  warmest  place  at  the  table,  were  apparently  the 
most  agreeable  things  that  had  ever  befallen  the  good  Mrs. 
Trowbridge. 

She  was  a  good  housekeeper  and  cook,  when  she  chose  to 
exercise  her  abilities  in  that  way,  but  I  soon  learned  that  it 
was  only  for  visitors  that  she  put  those  admirable  accomplish¬ 
ments  in  requisition,  and  that  for  the  most  part  the  household 
duties  fell  to  the  girls,  Molly,  and  Catharine,  whom  they  called 
Kate— her  eldest  daughter.  When  I  took  my  first  breakfast, 
she  said  she  was  afraid  I  could  not  eat  their  breakfast,  and  she 
laughed  very  much  ;  at  dinner  she  said  the  same  thing,  and 
laughed  again  ;  at  supper  she  repeated  the  remark  and  the 
laughter ;  and  all  these  meals  were  ample  and  excellent.  As 
they  diminished  in  these  respects,  the  laughter  and  apologies 
diminished  too. 

My  fire  was  burning  brightly  and  mingling  its  red  shadows 
with  the  sunset  that  slanted  through  the  west  window — the 
wind  blew  the  black  wintry  boughs  against  the  wall,  and  now 
and  then  a  snowflake  dropt,  silently  enhancing  the  in-door  com¬ 
fort,  as  I  sat  rocking  to  and  fro,  taking  soundings  as  it  were  of 
the  sea  of  love,  on  which  I  had  lately  embarked. 

All  the  past  week  had  seen  “  the  girls”  busy  and  cheerful, 
up  with  the  dawn,  and  going  through  all  the  duties  of  the 
day  with  as  much  interest  and  earnestness  as  though  each  had 
been  mistress  of  the  family.  When  the  housework  was  done 
they  sat  down  to  their  sewing — Molly  sometimes  withdrawing 
to  the  privacy  of  her  own  apartment,  an  upper  chamber, 
wherein  were  deposited  the  accumulations  and  inheritances  of 
her  life :  to-wit,  an  old  old-fashioned  bedstead  and  feather  bed, 
a  home-made  carpet,  four  or  five  crippled  chairs,  an  ancient¬ 
looking  bureau,  which  contained  the  wardrobe  of  her  long- 
deceased  and  respected  grandmother,  from  her  yellow  silk  wed¬ 
ding  dress  to  the  cambric  night-cap  in  which  she  died  ;  with 


232 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


two  barrels  of  kitchen  and  table  furniture — pots,  skillets  and 
gridirons,  knives  and  forks,  teapots,  and  the  like  ;  and  there 
was  bed-clothing  deposited  in  stacks  and  heaps  of  all  sizes, 
spinning-wheels  and  reels,  a  side-saddle,  and  various  other  arti¬ 
cles  no  less  curious  than  numerous.  There,  as  I  said,  Molly 
occasionally  retired,  to  collect  her  thoughts,  or  open  her  band- 
boxes,  perhaps,  or  bureau  drawers — as  what  woman  does  not, 
two  or  three  times  in  the  course  of  every  week,  merely  to  see 
how  things  are  getting  on. 

She  had  gone  to  this  museum  on  the  aforesaid  evening,  and 
had  been  followed,  as  she  usually  was,  first  by  Kate  with  the 
baby  in  her  arms,  next  by  Hiram,  the  oldest  boy,  with  a  piece 
of  bread  and  butter,  and  then  by  Alexander  Pope,  also  with  a 
similar  portion  of  his  evening  meal.  This  last-mentioned  son 
was  denominated  by  the  family  the  preacher,  in  consequence 
of  an  almost  miraculous  gift  of  “  speaking  pieces,”  which  he 
was  supposed  to  possess. 

From  the  hasty  shutting  and  opening  of  drawers,  I  inferred 
that  Miss  Molly  was  making  her  toilet,  for  it  was  Sunday  eve¬ 
ning,  and  girls  in  the  country  do  not  always  dress  for  dinner ; 
on  the  contrary  they  sometimes  delay  that  duty  till  after  the 
evening  milking. 

The  creaking  of  the  gate  diverted  my  attention,  both  from 
Molly  and  the  conclusion  at  which  I  had  just  arrived,  that  we 
may  visit  and  be  visited  a  good  while,  and  not  learn  much  of 
each  other ;  and  looking  out,  1  saw  riding  towards  the  house — 
for  he  had  unlatched  the  gate  without  dismounting — a  rosy- 
faced  young  man,  whose  chin  dropt  on  his  bosom,  perhaps  to 
keep  it  warm.  His  boots  were  spurred,  and  the  little  sorrel 
horse  he  bestrode  capered  and  curvetted  to  the  touch  of  his 
heels  in  a  way  that  was  ludicrous  to  witness  ;  and  the  more, 
as  the  strong  wind  drifted  the  mane  and  tail  of  the  animal 
strongly  in  the  direction  in  which  he  was  going.  There  was  a 
general  rushing  down  stairs' — Kate  and  the  baby  first,  and  tho 
two  boys,  with  their  bread  and  butter,  following. 

“  Oh  mother,  mother,  mother !  somebody  is  coming  to  our 
house — somebody  with  a  black  coat  on,  somebody  on  a  sorrel 
horse !” 


WHY  MOLLY  ROOT  GOT  MARRIED. 


233 


“  Mother,  make  them  hush,”  said  Kate.  “  [  know  who  it  is  ; 
it’s  Will  Pell,  and  he  is  coming  to  see  Molly.” 

“  Why,  Kate,  do  say  Mr.  Pell,”  replied  Mrs.  Trowbridge ; 
and  she  added,  “  1  wonder  what  there  is  you  do  n’t  know  V 

“  Not  much  of  anything,”  answered  the  girl,  complacently. 

Meantime  the  two  boys  kept  watch  at  the  window,  and 
reported  the  progress  made  by  Mr.  Pell  in  his  preparations  to 
come  in.  “  Now  he  is  hitching  his  horse,”  they  said ;  “Now  he 
is  coming  this  way ;”  “  Now  he  is  brushing  his  boots  with  his 
handkerchief ;”  “  Now  he  is  pulling  down  his  waistcoat 
“  Now  he  is  going  to  rap.” 

“  I  see,  he ’s  got  the  crape  off,  already,”  said  Kate,  “  and  it ’s 
just  a  year  and  two  months  and  three  days  since  his  wife  died  : 
it  was  Sunday,  about  two  hours  before  this  very  time,  that  she 
was  buried.” 

“  What  a  girl  you  are  !”  interposed  the  mother — “  I  wonder 
if  you  could  n’t  tell  how  many  dresses  she  had.” 

“  Yes,”  said  Kate  ;  “  she  had  her  white  wedding  dress,  and 
she  had  an  old  black  silk  dress,  and  she  had  a  blue  gingham 
dress  that  she  had  only  worn  twice — once  a  visiting  at  Mrs. 

"Whitfield’s,  and  once  at  meeting  ;■  and  she  had  a” -  Here 

the  catalogue  was  interrupted  by  the  rapping  of  Mr.  Pell. 

Kate  was  a  curious  combination  of  shrewdness  and  vulgarity, 
of  wisdom  in  little  things,  and  pertinacity  of  opinion.  She 
was  about  fourteen  years  of  age,  ill-.shapen  and  unshapen — 
partly  grown  and  partly  growing.  Her  eyes,  sparkling  and 
intelligent,  were  black  as  the  night,  and  her  hair,  of  the  same 
dye,  was  combed  so  low  over  her  forehead  and  cheeks  that  they 
were  always  in  part  concealed.  Her  shoulders  were  bent 
down,  for  that  when  not  engaged  in  some  household  drudgery, 
she  was  doomed  to  carry  the  baby  about — it  was  her  relaxa¬ 
tion,  her  amusement.  Molly  Root  was  a  quiet  little  woman, 
who  for  a  considerable  number  of  years  had  looked  pretty 
much  as  she  did  then  :  I  do  not  know  precisely  how  old  she 
was,  but  everybody  told  her  she  looked  young ;  and  when  one 
begins  to  receive  compliments  of  that  sort  they  are  to  be  un¬ 
derstood  as  delicate  intimations  that  they  have  once  been  a 
good  deal  younger  than  they  are  at  present.  In  dress  she  was 


234 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


tidy,  and  now  and  then  she  made  little  attempts  at  style. 
Her  manner,  to  speak  truth,  was  what  is  called  affected,  so  was 
her  conversation — faults  which  arose  from  a  desire  on  her  part 
to  appear  well.  She  was  amiable  and  good  in  all  ways ;  the 
everlasting  smile  on  her  face  did  not  belie  her  heart.  In  person 
she  was  short — chubby,  as  we  say ;  her  arms  were  short,  her 
neck  was  short,  and  her  face  was  short — her  forehead  being  the 
largest  part  of  it.  Her  eyes  were  of  a  pale  blue,  gentle,  but 
dull,  with  scarce  an  arrow  to  be  shot  at  any  one,  however  exci¬ 
ting  the  emergency.  Her  hair  was  of  a  soft  brown,  and  was 
worn  in  part  in  a  small  knot  on  the  back  of  her  neck,  and  in 
part  so  drawn  across  the  forehead  and  turned  toward  the  ears 
as  to  make  an  oblong  square.  She  had  from  time  to  time  re¬ 
ceived  offers,  as  perhaps  most  young  women  do,  and  every 
body  wondered  why  she  did  not  get  married.  At  length  that 
happy  event  was  brought  about,  and  then  everybody  wondered 
why  Molly  did  get  married :  “  She  had  such  a  nice  home — just 
like  her  own  father’s  house — and  Mrs.  Trowbridge  is  so  good- 
natured,  anybody  could  live  with  her.”  It  was  my  peculiar 
fortune  to  learn,  both  why  Molly  did  not  get  married  and  why 
she  did. 

"When  any  especial  good  luck  occurs  to  our  fellow  creatures 
we  are  apt  to  balance  it  with  their  little  faults  and  infirmities. 
Now  Mr.  Pell  was  rich  ;  that  he  had  come  to  see  Molly  there 
could  be  no  doubt — Kate  said  he  had,  and  Kate  knew ;  and  be- 
sides,  Molly  had  put  on  her  best  gown,  and  an  extra  smile,  and 
straws  show  which  way  the  wind  blows.  On  the  strength  of 
these  considerations  Mrs.  Trowbridge  came  presently  into  my 
room.  She  held  up  one  finger  by  way  of  keeping  down  the 
exclamation  she  evidently  expected,  as  she  announced  in  a 
whisper  that  Will  Pell  was  in  the  other  room.  “  Indeed  !” 
said  I,  for  I  felt  that  it  would  be  a  pity  to  disappoint  her  alto¬ 
gether,  by  evincing  no  surprise. 

“  Yes,  and  he  is  all  fixed  up,  ever  so  fine  spurs  on  his  boots, 
and  a  gold  chain,  as  big  as  Samuel’s  log- chain,  hanging  out  of 
his  pocket ;  and  he  says  to  Molly,  says  he,  ‘  I’m  pretty  well  I 
thank  you,’  when  she  had  not  asked  him  a  blessed  word  about 
it ;  and  for  my  part  I  think  such  things  mean  something.” 


WHY  MOLLY  ROOT  GOT  MARRIED. 


235 


“  That  was  funny,”  I  said. 

“  Yes,  and  Samuel  saw  how  confused  he  was  too :  he  could 
hardly  keep  his  face  straight.” 

Samuel  was  Mr.  Trowbridge ;  and  I  may  say  here,  that  for 
the  most  part  he  kept  his  face  very  straight.  But  of  this  here¬ 
after. 

“  I  do  n’t  pretend  to  be  a  prophet,”  she  went  on,  “  but  this 
day  a  twelve-month  they  will  be  married — mark  my  words  !” 

“  I  do  n’t  see  how  you  are  to  get  along,”  I  said. 

“  I  am  very  willing  to  try  !”  she  answered,  in  a  way  to  indi¬ 
cate  that  Molly’s  services  were  of  very  little  importance. 

“  She  seems  very  industrious,  and  so  motherly  to  the  chil¬ 
dren.” 

“  Sometimes,”  said  Mrs.  Trowbridge  ;  “  you  see  we  give  her 
a  home.  She  has  the  best  room  in  the  house,  and  does  what 
she  pleases  and  when  she  pleases,  and  nothing  if  she  pleases. 
If  she  takes  a  notion,  she  goes  away  for  weeks  at  a  time — and 
right  in  the  busiest  time,  as  like  as  any  way.” 

Here  the  children,  provided  with  fresh  slices  of  bread  and 
butter,  came  after  their  mother.  “  Molly  pushed  me  off,”  said 
one;  “I  do  n’t  care  for  old  Molly,”  cried  another.  “Well,” 
said  the  injured  mother,  “  she  is  dressed  too  fine  for  you  to 
touch  her — I  would  n’t  go  near  her  again  for  a  week.”  And 
she  put  her  arm  about  the  little  fellow’s  neck  and  kissed  him. 
Presently  she  said,  “  If  a  certain  person  that  you  know  should 
tie  herself  up  with  a  certain  other  person,  what  should  you 
think  of  it  ?” 

“  Who,  mother — who  is  going  to  be  tied  up  ?”  said  the 
children. 

“  Oh,  I  do  n’t  know — the  man  in  the  moon,”  she  replied.  Of 
course  I  did  not  think  much  about  it,  and  she  proceeded  to  say, 
if  it  was  going  to  be,  she  hoped  it  would  be  soon — that  was 
all :  that  some  folks  drove  others  out  of  their  own  house,  and 
that  she  felt  as  if  she  did  n’t  know  where  to  put  her  head. 

“  W^y  mother  !  Where  do  you  want  to  put  your  head  1” 
asked  tfic  boys. 

“  Oh,  1  do  n’t  know  :  in  a  bumble-bee’s  nest,  may  be.”  And 
after  a  pause — “  If  Miss  you-know-who  were  to  jump  into  a 


236 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


feather-bed  after  all  this  time,  it  would  be  right  down  funny, 
would  n’t  it ?” 

“  Who  is  Miss  you-know-who  ?”  asked  the  children,  “  and 
what  is  she  going  to  jump  into  a  feather-bed  fori  Is  it  our 
bed,  mother? — say!” 

“  Little  folks  must  not  have  big  ears,”  she  replied ;  “  do  run 
away  and  play  ;  go,  get  your  father’s  knife,  and  cut  sticks  in 
the  kitchen  ;  I  saw  some  pretty  shingles  there — go  and  cut 
them  up.” 

Away  they  ran,  at  this  inducement,  and  Mrs.  Trowbridge 
was  enabled  to  drop  the  disguise  and  speak  plainly  again. 
There  is  no  need  to  repeat  all  she  said  :  Molly  was  not  perfect, 
of  course  ;  Mrs.  Trowbridge  and  her  children  were  ;  conse¬ 
quently  every  unpleasant  occurrence  in  the  family  was  attribu¬ 
table  to  but  one  person.  She  did  not  say  this  precisely,  but 
such  was  a  necessary  inference  from  what  she  did  say.  Just 
then,  for  instance,  Molly  and  her  beau  were  in  the  way  of  get¬ 
ting  tea.  What  should  she  do  ?  She  believed  she  would  not 
have  any  tea. 

I  obviated  the  difficulty  by  inviting  the  lovers  into  my  room  ; 
and  Mrs.  Trowbridge  no  sooner  found  herself  in  the  presence 
of  Mr.  Pell  than  she  resumed  her  laughter,  suspended  during 
the  confidential  conference  with  me.  As  I  have  said,  it  was 
her  way  of  entertaining  people,  and  making  herself  agreeable. 

Mr.  Pell,  as  the  reader  is  informed,  was  a  widower — an  ex¬ 
ceedingly  active  and  sprightly  man,  and  his  natural  vivacity 
was  heightened,  no  doubt,  by  the  general  complaisance  of  the 
ladies  and  the  prosperous  state  of  his  affairs. 

“  Don’t  you  think,”  said  Molly,  dropping  her  head  on  one 
shoulder,  in  her  best  style,  and  addressing  me — “dont  you 
think  it  has  been  communicated  to  me  that  Mr.  Pell  is  going 
to  take  a  partner  for  life  ?”  She  liked  to  use  good  words. 

“  Pray,  who  is  the  happy  lady  ?”  I  asked. 

“  Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes,  yes,  yes  !  tell  us  that !”  said  Mr.  Pell, 

*  making  two  series  of  little  taps,  the  one  on  the  carpet  with  his 
foot,  and  the  other  on  the  table  with  his  hand. 

“  Oh,  a  little  bird  told  me — a  dear  little  bird  !”  And  the 
cheek  of  Molly  almost  touched  her  shoulder. 


WHY  MOLLY  ROOT  GOT  MARRIED. 


237 


“  A  love-bird,  was  n’t  it  1”.  And  Mr.  Pell  gave  her  cheek  a 
light  brush  with  the  finger  tips  of  his  glove. 

“  Oh  dear,  that  is  too  bad !” 

“Did  you  mean  that  ‘oh  dear’  for  me'?”  asked  Mr.  Pell, 
laughing  and  hitching  his  chair  toward  her. 

“  You  provoking  fellow  1”  she  replied,  tapping  his  ear  with 
her  fan. 

“  Miss  Molly,  Miss  Molly,  Miss  Molly  !”  he  exclaimed,  put¬ 
ting  his  hand  to  his  ear,  as  if  it  were  stung— “  have  you  such  a 
temper  1” 

“  The  sky  is  all  obscured — I  apprehend  a  tempestuous  night,” 
Molly  observed,  and  turned  her  eyes  away. 

“Just  see!  She  can’t  look  at  me  because  she  feels  so 
guilty — temper,  temper,  temper  !  Oh  dear,  dear,  dear !  I 
should  dread  to  have  such  a  wife !” 

“  1  am  just  going  to  run  away  !”  answered  Molly — her  head 
reclining  lower  than  before  :  but  she  made  no  attempt  to  exe¬ 
cute  her  threat. 

“  I  do  n’t  think  I  shall  let  you,”  said  Mr.  Pell,  hitching 
his  chair  still  closer,  and  taking  her  hand  as  if  forcibly  to 
detain  her. 

“  Oh  you  naughty  man !  Let  me  go.  Please  let  me  go.” 

“  No.  No,  no,  no,  no,  no,  no,  no  !” 

“  Well  then,  give  me  my  hand.” 

“  No,  no.  1  ’ll  keep  it,  I  ’ll  keep  it,  I  ’ll  keep  it,  for  always 
and  ever,  and  ever  and  ever  !” 

“  Oh,  bad  Mr.  Pell,  what  shall  I  do  without  a  hand  ?” 

“I  ’ll  give  you  mine,  I  ’ll  give  you  mine,  I  ’ll  give  you  mine; 
how  will  that  do  ?  how  will  that  do  ?  how  will  it  do,  do,  do  ?” 

“  Oh,  your  wit  is  inexhaustible !” 

“You  flatter  me,  I  have  no  wit — not  a  bit,  not  a  bit,  not  a 
bit !  It’s  you  that  are  witty  and  pretty,  and  pretty  and  witty.” 

“  I  wish  I  could  speak  charmingly  like  you.” 

“  Oh,  Miss  Molly,  Miss  Polly  Molly,  you  have  charming 
speech  and  charming  cheeks,  and  in  both  respects  I  am  only  an 
admirer  ;  an  admirer  of  your  cheeks  and  speech.” 

During  this  conversation,  he  had  kept  a  constant  hitching 
and  rocking  about,  striking  his  feet  together,  curling  and  un- 


238 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


curling  his  beard,  with  other  motions  that  indicated  a  restless 
state  of  mind  :  and  perceiving  his  condition,  I  excused  myself, 
on  a  pretence  of  assisting  Mrs.  Trowbridge.  To  my  surprise,  I 
saw  no  preparations  for  tea,  but  instead,  she  and  Samuel,  seated 
in  opposite  corners  of  the  fireplace,  watching  the  fading  of  the 
embers  with  the  greatest  apparent  interest.  She  was  smiling  a 
slow  smile,  as  Mrs.  Browning  says,  but  nevertheless  it  was  a 
smile  that  I  could  see  through.  She  had  expected  Molly  to 
attend  to  the  tea,  as  usual ;  Molly  had  not  proposed  so  to  do  : 
she  had  made  the  necessary  preparations  during  the  day,  and 
naturally  enough  supposed  she  could  be  excused  from  service 
in  the  evening.  Kate  was  carrying  the  baby  about,  and  com¬ 
puting  the  probable  cost  of  Mr.  Pell’s  boots,  coat,  and  hat,  and 
the  two  boys  lay  folded  up  and  asleep  on  the  carpet,  having,  in 
consequence  of  not  receiving  any  of  the  pound-cake  which  Molly 
had  baked  the  day  previous,  cried  themselves  into  forgetfulness 
of  their  misfortune. 

Mr.  Trowbridge  never  said  much  in  his  wife’s  presence ;  if 
he  had  done  so,  he  would  not  have  had  much  said  in  return  ; 
her  pleasant  things  were  for  others.  She  was  not  a  scold — her 
sins  were  rather  of  omission  of  speech,  when  alone  with  her 
spouse,  or  with  but  her  home  audience,  than  commission.  No 
matter  what  he  had  done  or  what  he  had  failed  to  do,  her  reply 
was  always  a  fretful  and  querulous  “  well.”  He  might  chop 
wood  all  day  in  the  snow,  and  she  never  thought  to  have  the 
fire  warmer  when  he  should  come  in  half  frozen ;  and  if  he  said, 
“  you  have  let  the  fire  get  low,”  or  anything  of  that  sort,  she 
would  merely  answer  “  well.”  If  she  baked  buckwheat  cakes, 
though  her  husband — the  uncivilized  creature — could  not  eat 
them,  she  never  put  any  other  bread  on  the  table.  If  Kate 
said,  “  I  think  you  are  smart,  mother  :  you  know  father  don’t 
like  these,”  she  only  answered  “  well !”  Poor  man,  a  cup  of 
weak  tea  has  served  him  for  supper  many  a  time,  after  a  hard 
day’s  work.  If  his  coat  grew  old-fashioned,  he  had  to  wear  it 
so,  for  Mrs.  Trowbridge  only  said  “well,”  fancying,  as  it 
seemed,  that  her  gowns  were  many  enough  and  bright  enough 
to  cover  all  deficiencies  in  both  their  wardrobes.  From  his 
youth  till  he  was  far  beyond  middle  age,  he  had  been  indus- 


WHY  MOLLY  ROOT  GOT  MARRIED. 


239 


trious  and  laborious,  in  years  in  and  out  of  season,  but  he  never 
acquired  anything  beyond  the  necessities  of  the  day,  and  he 
moved  about  from  place  to  place,  always  hoping  to  improve 
the  state  of  his  affairs,  but  never  doing  so. 

On  this  evening  I  remember  that  he  seemed  unusually  sensi¬ 
ble  of  his  condition,  and  that  his  wife  said  “  well”  an  unusual 
number  of  times. 

The  hours  went  slowly  by  till  nine  o’clock ;  the  cat  lay  on 
the  hearth  seemingly  very  comfortable,  and  she  was  the  only 
one  that  was  so.  Mr.  Trowbridge  was  looking  in  the  fire,  and 
Mrs.  Trowbridge  was  looking  in  the  fire,  and  I  was  looking  at 
them,  when  Molly,  opening  the  door,  inquired  whether  we  were 
to  have  any  supper. 

“  Sure  enough,”  said  Mrs.  Trowbridge,  “ are  we  to  have 
any  V ’ 

Molly  understood  the  reproof,  and  said  she  would  have  pre¬ 
pared  tea  as  she  always  did,  but  that  the  children  had  destroyed 
her  kindling,  and  she  thought  whoever  allowed  the  mischief 
might  repair  it.  In  an  under-tone  she  said  something  further, 
about  being  excused  once  in  her  life,  and  withdrew  rather  petu¬ 
lantly. 

II. 

The  old  clock  had  struck  twelve,  the  embers  were  deep 
under  the  ashes  ;  where  the  heads  of  the  household  had  been 
sitting  an  hour  before  ;  the  children  had  been  duly  taken  up, 
aud  duly  scolded,  and  compelled  to  walk  to  bed  half  asleep,  as 
they  were,  in  punishment  for  being  so  naughty — when  Molly 
and  I,  alone  by  the  parlor  fire — Mr.  Pell  having  said,  half  an 
hour  before,  “  Good  bye,  good  bye,  good  bye  !” — entered  on  a 
“  private  session.” 

Night,  whether  moon-light  or  star-light,  summer  night  or 
spring  night,  is  favorable  to  confessions ;  we  feel  a  confidence 
and  security  as  we  draw  together,  and  the  darkness  shuts  out 
all  the  great  world.  Almost  any  two  persons,  under  such  cir¬ 
cumstances,  will  be  more  communicative  than  they  would  be  in 
the  open  noonday,  and  more  especially  if  they  feel  mutually 
aggrieved,  as  did  Molly  and  I  on  this  particular  occasion  ;  for,  be 
it  remembered,  we  had  not  had  our  supper. 


240 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“  It  is  too  bad,”  she  said  at  length ;  “  I  have-done  enough  for 
Mrs.  Trowbridge,  I  am  sure,  to  merit  a  little  favor  once  in  a 
year  or  two — have  n’t  I  helpt  her,  week  in  and  week  out,  from 
year’s  end  to  year’s  end  1  I  was  with  her,  with  Hiram  and  the 
Preacher  and  all,  and  I  have  helpt  to  move  ten  times  if  I  have 
once,  and  done  time  and  again  what  no  money  would  hire  me 
to  do,  and  you  see  what  thanks  I  get  V  She  was  silent  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said  abruptly,  “Well,  I  shall  not  move 
grandmother’s  old  pots  more  than  once  more  !” 

“Ah,  Mrs.  Pell,”  I  said,  laughing,  and  taking  her  hand, 
“  allow  me  to  congratulate  you  !” 

Molly  did  not  smile  as  I  had  expected,  but  hid  her  face  in 
her  hands  and  burst  into  tears.  When  the  first  tumult  had 
subsided,  “  I  calmed  her  fears  and  she  was  calm,”  and  then  she 
“  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride.” 

“  When  I  was  younger  than  now,”  she  began ;  “  let  me  see, 
it  must  be  fif — ,  no,  I  don’t  know  how  long  it  is — well,  it’s  no 
matter” — she  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  say  it  was  even 
more  than  fifteen  years  ago — “  I  lived  with  my  grandmother  ; 
it  was  in  a  lonesome  old  house,  away  from  everybody  else ; 
from  our  highest  window  we  could  see  the  smoke  of  one  dwell¬ 
ing  and  that  was  all ;  and  living  there  at  the  same  time  was  a 
young  man  of  the  name  of  Philip  Heaton.  I  have  always 
thought  Philip  the  prettiest  name  in  the  world,  but  no  matter 
about  that ;  I  thought  Philip  Heaton  the  prettiest  fellow  I  had 
ever  seen,  as  you  can  guess :  he  was  so  good  to  me,  leaving  his 
own  work  to  spade  the  garden  beds,  and  milking  the  cows  that 
were  refractory,  and  doing  a  thousand  things  that  it  will  not 
interest  you  to  hear  about.  When  the  circuit  preacher  came 
once  a  month,  and  there  was  a  meeting  in  the  old  log  school- 
house,  a  mile  and  a  half  away,  we  never  failed  to  go,  and 
what  pleasant  times  they  were !  I  think  I  remember  distinctly 
all  the  walks  and  rides  we  ever  had  together.  Once  I  call 
to  mind  he  gathered  me  three  speckled  lilies — I  know  just 
where  they  grew  in  the  edge  of  a  pond,  where  the  grass 
was  coarse  and  heavy,  and  over  which  we  walked  on  a  log — I 
have  the  withered  things  somewhere  yet — the  meadow  we 
crossed,  and  where  we  climbed  the  fences,  the  long  strip  of 
I 


WHY  MOLLY  ROOT  GOT  MARRIED. 


241 


woods  with  its  crooked  path  among  decayed  leaves  and  sticks. 
Oh,  I  remember  all,  as  though  I  had  been  there  yesterday ;  and 
just  where  we  were  when  we  said  so  and  so :  I  could  go  back 
and  recount  everything.  Well,  as  I  said,  I  thought  Philip  was 
handsome — I  thought  he  was  good — in  fact  I  loved  him,  and  I 
still  think  he  lowed  me  then.  When  grandmother  was  dead, 
and  the  funeral  was  over,  we  first  talked  seriously  of  affection 
and  marriage.  I  was  sitting  alone  in  the  great  old-fashioned 
parlor,  thinking  of  one  of  our  neighbors,  a  poor  old  woman, 
who  had  told  me  I  must  not  keep  the  sheet  that  had  been  over 
the  corpse- -that  it  would  bring  ill-luck  to  me;  and  I  suspected 
she  wished  me  to  give  it  to  her,  as  I  afterwards  did ;  I  was 
alone,  thinking  of  this,  and  weighed  down  with  a  thousand 
melancholy  thoughts  connected  with  the  event  that  had  deprived 
me  not  only  of  a  home  but  of  the  only  real  friend  1  had  in  the 
world,  when  Philip  joined  me ;  for  it  was  evening,  and  his  work 
was  done.  The  November  winds  rattled  the  sash  against  which 
I  sat;  I  saw  the  vacant  chair,  and  thought  of  the  new  grave; 
and  covering  my  face,  I  cried  a  long  time ;  but  it  was  not  alto¬ 
gether  for  the  dead  that  my  tears  fell :  Philip  was  going  into  a 
distant  city  to  make  his  fortune,  I  was  to  live  with  a  distant 
relative,  and  we  should  not  see  each  other  for  a  long  time. 
The  cows  we  had  petted  and  milked  together  were  to  be  sold, 
and  the  garden  flowers  would  not  be  ours  any  more.  ‘  Maybe 
we  shall  buy  back  the  cows,’  said  Philip,  ‘  and  get  roots  and 
seeds  of  the  same  flowers,’  for  he  was  young  and  sanguine,  and 
love  sees  its  way  through  all  things  ;  and  when  he  kissed  me, 
and  said  it  should  be  so,  I  thought  it  would.  So  I  packed  up 
the  old  things  that  had  fallen  to  me,  and  went  to  my  new  home, 
with  a  world  of  sweet  hopes  and  promises  shut  close  in  my 
heart.  It  was  a  hard  and  lonesome  life  I  led,  but  when  from 
that  home  I  went  to  another  and  a  worse  one,  I  was  kept  up 
with  the  old  memory  and  the  new  hope. 

“  Philip  prospered  beyond  all  his  expectations,  and  there  be¬ 
gan  to  be  prospects  of  buying  the  cows,  sure  enough,  when 
there  came  a  few  tremulous  lines  to  inform  me  he  was  very  ill. 
I  cannot  tell,  and  it  would  be  useless  to  do  so  if  I  could,  what 
were  my  sufferings;  there  never  came  another  word  nor  sign; 

1 1 


242 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


I  tried  to  be  cheerful  and  to  live  on  in  some  way,  but  the  dear 
charm  of  life  was  gone ;  no  new  lover  ever  displaced  the  old 
one  from  my  heart ;  but  to-night — what  do  you  think  I  heard 
to-night!  Why,  that  Philip  Heaton  is  a  rich  man,  and  has 
been  married  these — these — oh,  a  good  while  !  Mr.  Pell  saw 
him  last  summer,  and  he  inquired  about  me — if  I  was  married 
— said  I  deserved  to  be — I  was  a  good  sort  of  a  girl — and  a 
good  deal  more  he  said  of  me  in  the  same  way.”  Alas,  for 
Molly  !  then  and  there  vanished  the  last  and  only  romance  of 
her  existence. 

I  have  not  given  the  story  in  her  precise  language,  for  I  can¬ 
not  remember  that,  but  I  have  retained  the  spirit  and  the  essen¬ 
tial  facts  of  her  not  unparalleled  experience.  It  needed  no  sub¬ 
sequent  observation  for  me  to  see  how  things  stood,  and  how 
they  would  end  ;  how  in  the  estimation  of  Mrs.  Trowbridge 
Molly  did  what  she  pleased,  and  when  she  pleased,  and  nothing 
if  she  pleased ;  how  she  had  all  the  advantages  of  a  home  and 
a  mother’s  care,  and  how  she  could  get  along  better  without 
her.  And  I  saw,  too,  how  Molly  thought  she  did  herself  a 
thousan/I  things  no  money  would  hire  her  to  do;  how  she  took 
an  interest  in  the  house,  as  though  it  were  all  hers — getting 
small  thanks  after  all ;  how  she  sewed  for  others  to  earn  her 
scanty  clothing ;  and  how  she  had  moved  her  heirlooms  about 
till  she  was  tired,  and  had  begun  to  take  less  romantic  and 
more  practical  views  of  things.  She  never  said  so  precisely, 
but  I  saw  that  a  good  home  and  an  estimable  man  to  care  for 
her  were  weighing  heavily  against  an  old  dream  ;  so  that  I  was 
not  surprised  when  on  entering  her  room  one  day  I  found  her 
standing  before  her  grandmother’s  narrow  looking-glass,  care¬ 
fully  dividing  hair  from  hair,  and  now  and  then  plucking  one 
that  had  a  questionable  hue;  nor  was  it  any  surprise  when 
Kate  told  me,  in  a  whisper,  that  in  just  seventeen,  days  and 
three  hours  and  ten  minutes  Molly  would  become  Mrs.  Pell. 
She  had  made  accurate  calculation,  for  the  wedding  day  was  in 
her  little  life  a  great  day  indeed,  as  in  fact  it  was  to  Mrs.  Trow¬ 
bridge;  whose  laughter,  for  those  intervening  seventeen  days,  I 

I  think  had  scarcely  a  cessation. 

«/ 

Mr.  Pell,  meantime,  became  unusually  nimble,  hopping  and 


WHY  MOLLY  ROOT  GOT  MARRIED. 


248 


balancing  about  like  a  spring  bird,  and  more  than  ever  repeat¬ 
ing  his  words  in  a  musical  trill ; — “  wify,  wify,  wify  !”  he  would 
say  sometimes,  assuming  the  conjugal  address  before  the  conju¬ 
gal  ceremony,  and  he  was  observed  to  wear  his  hat  awry,  and 
to  go  abroad  in  a  red  boyish  waistcoat  which  he  probably  had 
not  worn  for  years  :  and  Molly  I  think  was  even  more  nice  in 
her  choice  of  words  than  was  her  wont. 

The  night  before  the  marriage,  as  we  sat  together  before  the 
fire,  she  took  from  the  shelf,  and  unfolded  from  a  dozen  careful 
wrappers,  an  old  volume,  and  shook  into  the  ashes  from  be¬ 
twixt  the  leaves  some  broken  remnants  of  flowers.  She  sighed 
as  she  did  so — they  may  have  been  the  three  lilies ;  in  a  mo¬ 
ment  she  smiled  again,  and  twirling  the  marriage  ring,  and 
looking  from  the  window,  observed  that  she  could  not  think  of 
anything  but  the  splendor  of  the  queen  of  night !  I  thought  it 
was  very  likely. 

All  the  preceding  day  Kate  was  in  the  seventh  heaven  ;  she 
wore  new  calf-skin  shoes  and  a  new  calico  dress,  and  why  should 
she  not  be  happy  ?  Mrs.  Trowbridge  said  a  wredding  seemed 
to  her  one  of  the  solemnest  things  in  the  world,  but  she  laughed 
all  the  while;  she  did  not  even  say  “well,”  that  Mr.  Trow¬ 
bridge  bought  a  new  hat  for  the  occasion,  which  he  did  not  once 
all  that  day  move  from  his  head. 

I  will  not  attempt  a  description  of  the  wedding  festivities. 
It  seemed  to  me  half  the  folks  in  Clovernook  were  there.  Sally 
Blake  came  first,  pleasant  and  useful  as  ever,  and  afterward 
Miss  Claverel,  Miss  Whitfield,  poor  Mrs.  Troost  with  her  ill- 
omened  gossip,  and  excellent  Mrs.  Hill,  our  old  friend,  with 
kindlier  prophecies  of  happiness,  and  Dr.  Hayward,  the  family 
physician,  and  a  great  many  others,  living  in  the  neighborhood, 
besides  two  or  three  smartish  young  grocers  and  produce  deal¬ 
ers  from  the  city,  with  whom  Mr.  Pell  had  transactions  “  agree¬ 
able  and  profitable  all  round.”  Mrs.  Trowbridge’s  children 
were  as  noisy  and  ill-mannered  as  ever,  the  good  woman 
laughed  at  every  observation  made  by  herself,  or  the  bride  and 
groom,  or  the  guests,  and  Mr.  Pell  was  smartly  dressed  and 
looked  unutterable  and  said  incomprehensible  things,  all  with 
an  air  of  self-satisfaction  which  gave  ample  assurance  that  he 


244 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


was  blessed  as  ever  bridegroom  should  wish  to  be.  As  for 
Molly,  she  was  attired  very  prettily,  and  seemed,  or  tried  to 
seem,  the  happiest  woman  in  the  house  ;  but  I  could  see  once  in  a 
while  an  involuntary  seriousness  in  her  eyes  ;  and  once,  after 
she  had  suddenly  quitted  the  room  for  a  moment,  I  thought  I 
saw  signs  of  tears,  driven  back  with  a  strong  will — tears  that 
had  come  with  unbidden  memories  from  scenes  where  she  had 
walked  in  summer  nights,  so  long  ago — where  beautiful  hopes 
were  born,  and  buried,  buried  forever.  As  she  entered  the 
room,  her  hand  upon  her  breast,  the  angels  might  have  heard 
her  say,  “  Be  still,  be  still,  oh  turbulent  heart !”  and  when  she 
led  off  a  dance  with  Mr.  Pell,  she  looked  as  if  she  had  quite 
forgot  all  the  dreams  ever  dreamed  by  Molly  Root. 

These  marriages  of  convenience  are  sad  affairs,  even  among 
the  humble,  with  whom  so  many  cares  divide  authority  in 
the  heart.  It  is  well  when  they  are  contracted  by  brave  na¬ 
tures,  with  unfaltering  wills,  looking  backward  for  darkness  and 
forward  for  light,  and  never  suffering  the  past  to  prevent  the 
clutching  of  every  possible  good  in  the  present,  or  to  cloud  the 
future  so  that  its  fartherest  joys  shall  fail  of  inspiring  continual 
hope  and  strength. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pell  are  well-to-do  in  the  world ;  the  “  rise  of 
property,”  indeed,  has  made  them  rich,  and  Molly  sometimes 
sends  her  carriage  to  bring  Mrs.  Trowbridge  to  tea,  and  gives 
to  Kate  occasionally  some  cast-off  dress  or  last  year’s  finery, 
which,  made  over,  is  to  her  as  good  as  new.  The  reader  will 
understand  why  she  remained  so  long  unmarried,  why  at  length 
she  became  a  wife ;  and  those  accustomed  much  to  the  conver¬ 
sations  of  married  ladies  perhaps  might  hear  without  surprise 
her  frequent  declaration,  that  “dear  Mr.  Pell”  was  her  “first 
and  only  love !” 

- There  they  go!  How  those  spanking  grays,  with  their 

shining  harness,  and  the  bright  green  and  yellow  barouche, 
make  the  dust  fly  as  they  whirl  by  the  Clovernook  Hotel! 
Mr.  Pell  says  “  It  is  the  thing,  the  thing,  precisely  the  thing  ! 
Is  n’t  it  Molly,  Molly,  Molly  !” 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 


245 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 

I. 

As  there  is  in  every  neighborhood  a  first  family,  so  there  is 
a  last  family — a  family  a  little  behind  everybody  else — and  in 
Clovernook  this  family  was  named  Ryan.  They  did  not  indeed 
live  very  near  the  village,  but  rather  on  the  very  verge  of  our 
neighborhood.  A  little  dingy  house,  off  the  main  road,  and  sit¬ 
uated  in  a  hollow,  was  their  habitation,  and,  though  they  were 
intelligent,  they  had  no  ideas  of  the  elegancies  of  life,  and  but 
meagre  ones,  indeed,  of  its  comforts. 

Charlotte,  the  eldest  daughter,  inherited  all  the  cleverness 
of  her  parents,  with  few  of  their  prejudices  against  modern  im¬ 
provements,  so  that,  now  and  then,  her  notions  ran  out  into  a 
sort  of  flowery  border  along  the  narrow  way  in  which  she  had 
been  taught  to  walk.  Small  opportunities  had  she  for  the  indul¬ 
gence  of  refined  or  elegant  tastes,  but  sometimes,  as  she  brought 
home  the  cows  at  night,  she  lingered  to  make  a  “  wreath  of 
roses,”  or  to  twist  the  crimson  tops  of  the  iron-weeds  with  her 
long  black  hair ;  and  once  I  remember  seeing  her,  while  she  was 
yet  a  little  girl,  with  a  row  of  maple  leaves  pinned  to  the  bot¬ 
tom  of  her  skirt ;  she  was  pretending  they  were  the  golden 
fringe  of  her  petticoat. 

Clovernook  boasted  of  one  or  two  select  schools  even  at  that 
time,  to  which  most  of  the  people,  who  were  not  very  poor, 
contrived  to  send  their  daughters:  but  little  Charlotte  went 
down  the  hollow,  across  a  strip  of  woods,  to  the  old  schoolmas¬ 
ter,  who  taught  in  a  log  house  and  in  an  obscure  neighborhood 
for  the  summer,  and  made  shoes  in  the  winter,  and  I  suspect 
he  was  but  imperfectly  skilled  in  either  vocation,  for  I  remem- 


246 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


ber  it  used  to  be  said  that  he  had  “  taken  up  both  trades  out  of 
his  own  head.”  The  girls  of  the  “  high  school”  were  in  her 
eyes  “  privileged  beyond  the  common  run — quite  on  the  verge 
of  heaven.”  And  no  wonder  she  regarded  them  so  :  the  rib¬ 
bons  that  tied  their  braids,  were  prettier  than  the  two  or  three 
teeth  of  horn  comb  that  fastened  her  own  hair,  and  her  long 
checked-apron  compared  unfavorably  with  their  white  ones. 
But  with  this  period  of  her  life  I  have  little  to  do,  as  the  story 
I  am  going  to  relate  is  limited  to  the  circle  of  a  few  days,  when 
Charlotte  had  ceased  to  pin  maple  leaves  on  her  petticoat,  and 
wore  instead  ornaments  of  glass  and  pinchbeck. 

“  Here  is  a  letter  for  Miss  Ryan  :  it  will  not  be  much  out  of 
your  way,  if  you  will  be  so  kind,”  said  the  post-master  to  me 
one  evening,  as  I  received  my  own  missives,  for  at  that  time 
the  postmaster  of  Clovernook  knew  all  the  persons  in  the  habit 
of  receiving  letters,  and  as  one  for  Miss  Ryan  had  never  been 
there  before,  I,  as  well  as  he,  naturally  supposed  it  would  be  a 
surprise,  probably  an  agreeable  one  to  her,  and  I  therefore 
gladly  took  charge  of  it,  choosing  instead  of  the  dusty  high¬ 
way,  a  path  through  the  meadows,  and  close  under  the  shadow 
of  the  woods,  which  brought  the  home  of  Charlotte  directly  in 
my  way,  though  the  duty  I  undertook  added  more  than  a  mile 
to  my  walk  homeward.  It  was  in  the  late  autumn,  and  one  of 
those  dry,  windy,  uncomfortable  days  which  brings  thought 
from  its  wanderings  to  hover  down  about  one’s  home ;  so,  as 
the  night  fell,  I  quickened  my  steps,  pausing  now  and  then  to 
listen  to  the  roar  down  deep  in  the  woods,  which  seemed  like 
the  moan  of  the  sea — which  I  had  heard  only  in  imagination 
then — or  to  mark  the  cabin  homes,  peering  out  of  the  forest, 
and  calculate  the  amount  of  comfort  or  discomfort  in  them  or 
about;  and  I  remember  to  this  day  some  particular  facts  from 
which  inferences  were  drawn.  Before  one  door,  a  dozen  dun 
and  speckled  pigs  were  feeding  from  a  trough,  and  sunken  in 
mud  knee  deep,  and  near  them,  barefooted,  and  wearing  a  red 
flannel  shirt,  stood  a  ragged  urchin,  whose  shouts  of  delight 
would  have  been  pleasant  to  hear,  but  for  the  harsh,  scolding 
voice  that  half  drowned  them.  Both  the  joy  and  the  anger 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 


247 


were  a  mystery  at  first,  but  I  presently  saw  by  what  they  were 
caused. 

“  I  ’ll  come  out  and  settle  with  you,  my  boy,  if  you  do  n’t 
quit  that — mind  I  tell  you  !”  screamed  an  old  woman,  leaning 
over  the  low  rail  fence  of  the  door-vard,  her  cap-border  flapping 
like  a  flag  of  war,  and  with  one  foot  on  the  ground  and  one  in 
the  air,  as  she  bent  eagerly  forward,  gesticulating  vehemently, 
but  chiefly  in  the  direction  of  an  old  cat,  which  the  boy  had  put 
in  a  slender  harness  of  twine — his  own  ingenious  workmanship, 
I  suspect.  He  laughed  heartily,  in  spite  of  the  threatened  set¬ 
tlement,  calling  out  in  high  glee,  as  pussy  ran  up  a  tree  to 
escape  him,  “  Jemen tallies  !  how  she  goes  it !” 

“  I  ’ll  go  you,”  continued  the  monitor,  “  as  sure  as  you  ’re 
born,  if  you  do  ’nt  ungear  the  poor  sarpent  before  you  ’re  a 
minute  older  !”  And  so  I  passed  out  of  hearing  and  out  of 
sight,  and  I  have  never  since  been  enlightened  as  to  the  adjust¬ 
ment  of  the  pending  difficulty. 

It  was  quite  night,  and  the  candle-light  streamed  bright 
through  the  dead  morning-glory  vines  which  still  hung  at  the 
window,  when  my  rap  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Ryan  was  answered 
by  a  loud  and  clear  “  Come  in  !”  so  earnest  that  it  seemed 
half  angry. 

Homely,  but  still  home-like,  was  the  scene  that  presented 
itself — the  hickory  logs  were  blazing  in  the  deep  wide  fire-place, 
the  children  were  seated  quietly  on  the  trundle-bed,  for  their 
number  had  grown  faster  than  that  of  the  chairs,  and  talking  in 
an  under-tone  about  “  choosing  sides”  at  school,  and  what  boys 
and  girls  were  “  first-rate  and  particular”  as  choosers,  and  what 
ones  were  big  dumb-heads:  they  presently  changed  their  tone 
from  a  low  key  to  a  sharp  whisper,  much  more  distinct,  but  my 
entrance  did  not  interrupt  their  discussion. 

Mr.  Ryan,  wearing  a  coat  and  trowsers  with  patches  at  el¬ 
bow  and  knee  of  a  dissimilar  color,  was  seated  on  a  low  stool 
in  the  corner,  engaged  in  softening  with  melted  tallow  the  hard 
last  year’s  shoes  of  the  children,  which  had  been  put  aside 
during  the  summer  season. 

“A  young  winter,”  he  said,  by  way  of  welcoming  me,  and 
then  continued  apologetically,  and  as  though  it  was  almost  a 


248 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


disgrace  to  wear  shoes,  “  the  wind  to-day  makes  a  body  feel 
like  drawing  their  feet  in  their  feathers.” 

I  said  the  winter  brought  its  needs,  or  something  of  that  sort, 
implying  that  we  regarded  things  in  the  same  way,  and  he 
resumed  and  continued  the  mollifying  process  without  speaking 
another  word. 

Golden  rings  of  dried  pumpkins  hung  along  the  ceiling,  bags 
of  dried  apples  and  peaches,  bunches  of  herbs,  and  the  like,  and 
here  and  there  from  projections  of  framework,  hung  stockings, 
by  dozens,  and  other  garments  suited  to  the  times.  A  limb  of 
bright  red  apples,  withering  in  the  warmth  and  smoke,  beauti¬ 
fied  the  jamb,  beneath  the  great  “bake  oven,”  and  such  were 
all  the  ornaments  of  which  the  room  could  boast,  I  think. 

Mrs.  Ryan  was  busy  at  the  kneading  trough,  making  short¬ 
cakes  for  breakfast — silent  mostly,  and  wearing  a  look  of 
severity,  as  though  she  knew  her  duty  and  did  it.  Only  Char¬ 
lotte  came  forward  to  meet  me,  and  smiled  her  welcome.  The 
Methodist  “  Advocate”  lay  open  on  the  table,  and  some  sewing 
work  dropped  from  her  lap  as  she  rose.  She  politely  offered 
me  the  chair  with  the  leather  bottom,  and  added  to  the  sticks 
on  the  fire,  manifesting  her  good  will  and  courtesy  in  the  only 
ways  possible. 

She  had  grown  beautifully  into  womanhood,  and  though  her 
dress  was  neither  of  choice  material,  nor  so  made  as  to  set  off 
her  person  very  advantageously,  it  wTas  easy  to  perceive  that 
under  the  hands  of  an  artist  in  waists,  skirts,  &c.,  her  form 
would  seem  admirable  for  its  contour  and  fine  proportion, 
while  her  face  should  be  a  signal  for  envy  or  for  admiration  to 
youthful  women  and  men,  if  she  were  “in  society.”  And  she 
had  in  some  way  acquired,  too,  quite  an  agreeable  manner  of 
her  own,  only  wanting  a  freedom  from  restraining  influences  to 
become  really  graceful  and  captivating;  and  I  could  not  help 
wishing,  as  I  looked  on  her,  that  she  could  find  a  position  bet¬ 
ter  suited  to  her  capacities  and  inclinations.  A  foolish  wish. 

The  letter  elicited  expressions  of  surprise  and  curiosity  from 
all  members  of  the  family,  except  Charlotte,  who  suppressed 
her  interest  for  the  time.  “  Let  me  see  it,  let  me  see  it,”  ex¬ 
claimed  the  children,  but  the  stamp  of  the  father’s  foot  brought 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 


249 


silence  into  the  room,  on  which  he  arose,  and  wiping  his  hands 
on  his  hair,  prepared  to  read  the  letter,  for  Charlotte  did  not 
think  of  breaking  the  seal  herself. 

“  it ’s  from  down  the  river  I  reckon,”  said  the  mother,  “and 
tells  us  all  about  Peter’s  folks.”  Charlotte  blushed  and  looked 
annoyed.  “I’ll  just  bet !”  said  one  of  the  boys,  a  bright-look¬ 
ing  lad  of  nine  or  ten  years,  “  that  a  queen  gets  letters  every 
day  ;  yes,  and  written  on  gold  paper,  likely  enough,”  he  con¬ 
tinued,  after  a  moment,  and  in  response  to  himself  as  it  were. 

“  I  wish  I  was  there,”  said  a  younger  sister,  smiling  at  the 
pleasant  fancy,  “and  I’d  climb  away  up  on  her  throne  some 
time  when  she  was  gone  to  meeting,  and  steal  some  of  her 
things.” 

“  And  you  would  get  catched  and  have  your  head  chopped 
off  with  a  great  big  axe,”  replied  the  brother. 

The  little  girl  continued  musingly,  “I  expect  Charlotte’s  new 
Sunday  dress  is  no  finer  than  a  queen  wears  every  day.” 

“  Every  day  !”  exclaimed  the  mother  in  lofty  contempt, 
“  she  wears  as  good  washing-day  in  the  kitchen.”  In  the  midst 
of  these  speculations  I  took  leave.  A  day  or  two  afterwards,  I 
learned  that  Charlotte  was  gone  to  pass  a  month  or  two  with 
some  relations  near  the  city. 


IL 

These  relatives  were  but  recently  established  in  a  country 
home,  having  belonged  originally  to  one  of  the  northern  seaport 
towns.  The  family  embraced  but  three  persons,  the  father, 
whose  life  had  in  some  capacity  been  passed  mostly  at  sea, 
and  two  daughters — all  unfitted  by  education  and  habit  for  their 
new  position. 

Of  course  Charlotte  had  heard  much  of  her  uncle,  Captain 
Bailey,  and  his  daughters,  and  in  childish  simplicity  supposed 
them  to  be  not  only  the  grandest  but  also  the  most  excellent 
people  in  the  world.  They  dwelt  in  her  thoughts  on  a  plane 
of  being  so  much  above  her,  that  she  involuntarily  looked  up  to 
them  and  reverenced  them  as  if  they  were  of  a  fairer  and  purer 
world. 


250 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Through  all  her  childhood  it  had  been  a  frequent  wish  that 
some  of  uncle  John’s  folks  would  come,  but  uncle  John’s  folks 
never  came,  and  so  she  grew  into  womanhood  without  being 
much  disenchanted.  Nobody  about  Clovernook  was  at  all 
comparable  to  them  in  any  respect,  as  they  lived  in  the  beauti¬ 
ful  region  of  her  dreams. 

Mrs.  Ryan  and  Mrs.  Bailey  were  sisters,  -who  in  early  life 
were  all  in  all  to  each  other.  Marriage  had  separated  them,  by 
distance  much,  by  circumstances  more.  Mrs.  Bailey  went  to 
an  establishment  in  town,  and  after  a  round  of  dissipations  and 
gaieties,  became  a  small  link  in  the  chain  of  fashion,  having 
married  out  of,  and  above  her  previous  and  fit  position.  Mrs. 
Ryan,  who  as  a  girl  was  the  less  dashing  and  spirited  of  the 
two,  became  a  farmer’s  wife,  and  with  the  energy  and  determi¬ 
nation  which  characterized  her  always,  struck  at  once  into  the 
wilderness  in  search  of  a  new  home. 

Sad  enough  was  the  parting  of  the  sisters,  and  many  the 
promises  to  write  often,  and  to  visit  each  other  as  soon  as 
might  be  ;  but  these  promises  were  never  kept,  and  perhaps  it 
was  well  they  never  were,  for  far  outside  of  the  blessed  oneness 
of  thought  and  feeling  in  which  they  parted,  would  have  been 
their  meeting  !  Absence,  separate  interests,  different  ways  of 
life,  soon  did  their  work. 

As  I  said,  they  never  met,  and  so  never  knew  that  they  had 
grown  apart,  but  each  lived  in  the  memory  of  the  other,  best 
and  most  beautiful  to  the  last.  But  though  each  mother  taught 
her  children  to  love  and  reverence  the  good  aunt  that  lived  far 
away,  and  whom  possibly  they  would  see  some  time,  the  young 
Baileys  failed  to  be  impressed  with  that  respect  and  admiration 
for  their  country  relations,  which  the  country  relations  felt  for 
them. 

After  a  series  of  successes  came  adverse  fortune  to  the  Bai¬ 
leys,  then  the  death  of  the  wife  and  mother,  and  so,  partly  in 
the  hope  of  bettering  their  condition,  and  partly  to  escape  mor¬ 
tification,  the  broken  and  helpless  family  removed  from  their 
statelier  home  and  settled  in  the  neighborhood  of  our  beautiful 
city  in  the  west.  For  they  fancied,  as  many  other  people  do 
who  know  nothing  about  it,  that  the  farmer’s  is  a  sort  of  holi- 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 


251 


day  life ;  that  after  planting  the  crop  he  may  sleep  or  play  till 
the  harvest  time ;  that  then  the  labor  of  a  day  or  two  fills  the 
barn  with  bright  sheaves  and  sweet  hay  ;  and  that  all  the  while, 
and  without  any  effort,  cattle  and  sheep  and  horses  are  growing 
and  fattening,  and  plenty  flowing  in.  A  little  experience  suffi¬ 
ced  to  cure  the  Baileys  of  this  pleasant  conceit.  In  truth,  they 
did  n’t  go  to  work  in  the  right  way,  with  an  honest  determina¬ 
tion  that  compels  success.  Farming  and  housekeeping  were 
begun  as  delightful  experiments,  and  when  the  novelty  was  lost, 
they  fell  back  into  lamentations  and  repinings  for  the  opulence 
they  had  lost.  Briers  made  sorry  work  with  Captain  Bailey’s 
ruffles,  and  the  morning  dew  was  unfavorable  to  the  polish  of 
his  boots  ;  the  corn  did  n’t  fall  into  baskets  of  itself,  nor  the 
apples  come  home  without  having  been  first  shaken  from  the 
trees,  and  picked  up,  one  by  one.  Weeds  and  burs  ran  over 
the  garden  and  choked  the  small  vegetables;  the  cows  grew 
lean,  and  their  milk  dried  away,  to  the  astonishment  of  all  par¬ 
ties — for  nobody  suspected  they  were  not  milked  regularly  and 
rightly,  or  that  their  wants  were  not  attended  to,  and  some 
fearful  distemper  was  supposed  to  have  attacked  them,  as  day 
after  day  flocks  of  buzzards  and  crows  were  seen  settling  in 
hollows  where  the  poor  creatures  had  died.  But  Captain  Bai¬ 
ley’s  troubles  were  trifles  compared  with  the  afflictions  of  his 
daughters,  who  not  only  sighed  and  cried,  but  wished  themselves 
dead,  a  dozen  times  a  day.  The  hard,  yellow  balls  of  butter, 
which  they  fancied  would  be  so  nice,  required  more  labor  and 
care  in  the  making  than  they  were  willing  to  bestow;  bread 
was  taken  from  the  oven  black  and  heavy  ;  and,  in  fact,  the 
few  things  that  were  done  at  all  were  not  done  well,  and  gene¬ 
ral  weariness  and  dissatisfaction  was  the  consequence. 

“  I  wish  I  was  in  heaven  !”  exclaimed  Miss  Sally  Bailey,  one 
day,  more  wrathfully  than  piously,  turning  at  the  same  time 
from  the  churn  and  hiding  her  eyes  from  the  great  splash  of 
cream  that  soiled  the  front  of  her  lavender  colored  silk. 

“  It ’s  no  use  for  us  to  try  to  live  like  anybody,”  answered 
Kate,  “  and  we  might  as  well  give  up  first  as  last,  and  put  on 
linsey,  and  work,  and  work,  and  work  till  we  die !” 

And  both  girls  sat  down  and  bent  their  eyes  on  the  floor, 


252 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


either  not  seeing,  or  affecting  not  to  see,  the  discomfort  in 
which  their  father  was;  poor  man,  he  had  come  in  from  the 
field  with  a  thorn  in  his  hand,  and  with  the  blood  oozing  from 
the  wound,  was  vainly  searching  under  chairs  and  tables,  and 
shoving  his  hand  one  way  and  the  other  across  the  carpet,  for 
the  needle  lost  in  his  endeavor  to  perform  with  it  a  surgical 
operation. 

“  I  do  wish,”  he  said  at  last,  a  little  petulantly,  “  I  could 
ever  have  any  body  to  do  any  thing  for  me.” 

“I  am  sure  I  am  sorry  for  the  accident,”  said  one  of  the  girls, 
“if  that  will  do  you  any  good.” 

“I  do  n’t  think  it  will,”  was  the  reply  ;  and  the  other  sister 
offered  assistance,  assuring  her  hither,  and  as  though  he  were 
responsible  for  it,  that  she  could  feel  nothing  less  than  the 
broomstick  in  her  clumsy  fingers,  so  it  was  useless  to  try  to 
handle  a  needle. 

Having  survived  the  operation,  Captain  Bailey,  wffio  was 
really  disposed  to  do  the  best  he  could,  pinned  a  towel  against 
his  vest,  and  took  hold  of  the  churn,  saying,  “Now,  my  dears, 
I’ll  make  the  butter,  while  you  arrange  the  dinner.” 

“I  would  like  to  know  what  we  are  to  arrange,”  said 
Kate,  tossing  her  head,  “  there  is  nothing  in  the  house  that  I 
know  of.” 

“  Surely  there  is  something,”  the  father  said,  working  the 
dasher  most  energetically;  “there  is  pork,  and  flour,  and  ap¬ 
ples,  and  cream,  and  butter,  and  potatoes,  and  coffee,  and  tea, 

and  sugar” - there  the  girls  interrupted  him  with  something 

about  a  meal  suitable  for  wood-choppers. 

Captain  Bailey  was  now  seriously  discouraged,  and  without 
speaking  again,  continued  to  churn  for  two  hours,  but  the  cream 
was  cold  and  thin,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  looked  no  more 
likely  to  “come”  than  at  first,  so  giving  the  churn  a  jostle  to 
one  side,  with  somethiug  that  sounded  very  like  an  oath,  the 
gentleman  removed  the  towel  which  had  served  him  for  an 
apron,  and  taking  down  his  gun  from  the  wall,  walked  hurriedly 
in  the  direction  of  the  woods.  But  he  was  one  of  those  men 
who  aie  called  good-hearted,  and  though  he  managed  badly, 
never  doing  either  himself  or  anybody  else  any  good,  still, 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 


233 


every  one  said,  “  he  means  well,”  and  “  what  a  good-hearted 
fellow  he  is.”  So,  of  course,  his  amiability  soon  returned,  and 
having  brought  down  two  squirrels  and  a  wood-cock,  whistling 
out  the  hope  and  good-nature  that  were  in  his  heart.  “  Well, 
Sally,”  he  said,  throwing  down  the  game,  “  here  is  something 
for  dinner.” 

“Very  well,”  she  replied,  but  without  looking  up,  or  ceas¬ 
ing  from  her  work  of  rubbing  chalk  on  the  cream-spot  of  her 
dress. 

Kate,  since  her  father’s  departure,  had  bestirred  herself  so 
much  as  to  pin  a  towel  about  the  churn,  set  it  one  side,  and  fill 
the  tea-kettle,  after  which  she  seated  herself  with  the  last  new 
novel. 

“  Well  my  dear,  what  is  the  news  with  you'?”  asked  the 
captain,  punching  the  fire  at  the  same  time,  in  an  anxious  way. 

“  The  news  is,”  she  answered,  “  that  two  chickens  have 
drowned  themselves  in  a  pail  of  dish-water,  and  the  pig  you 
bought  at  the  vendue  is  choked  to  death  with  a  loaf  of  burnt 
bread — when  I  found  it,  it  was  in  the  last  agonies,”  she  con¬ 
tinued,  laughing,  “  and  I  don’t  see  what  we  are  to  do.” 

“  An  idea  strikes  me,”  answered  the  father,  in  no  wise  dis¬ 
couraged.  “Write  to  your  cousin — what’s  her  name1?  who 
lives  out  in  Clovernook — she’s  a  housekeeper,  I’ll  warrant  you  ; 
write  to  her  to  come  and  visit  you  for  a  month  or  two,  and  ini¬ 
tiate  you  in  the  ways  of  the  woods.” 

“  A  good  notion,”  said  Kate,  throwing  down  her  book,  and 
the  dinner  went  forward  better  than  any  one  had  done  since  the 
housekeeping  began. 

The  farm  selected  by  Captain  Bailey,  was  east  of  the  Queen 
City — not  so  far,  however,  but  that  some  of  the  spires,  and  it 
is  a  city  of  spires,  were  clearly  visible  from  its  higher  eleva¬ 
tions.  Both  house  and  grounds  were  seriously  out  of  repair, 
having  been  abandoned  by  the  person  who  purchased  and  fitted 
them  up,  and  sold  ultimately  at  a  sacrifice.  They  were  well 
suited  for  the  present  proprietor ;  the  spirit  of  broken-down 
assumption  reigned  supreme  everywhere:  you  might  see  it 
perched  on  the  leaning  posts  of  the  gateway,  and  peering  from 
under  the  broken  mullions  of  the  great  windows.  It  had  been 


254 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


a  fine  place,  when  the  forest  land  was  first  trimmed  up  and 
cleared,  when  pebbles  and  flowers  bordered  the  rivulets,  and 
the  eminence  on  which  stood  the  house  was  terraced  into  green 
stairs.  The  tall  red  chimneys  were  some  of  them  fallen  partly 
down  now,  and  the  avenue  leading  from  the  gate  to  the  hall 
was  lost  in  weeds  and  grass,  through  which  only  a  wagon-track 
was  broken. 

One  or  two  Uellised  summer-houses  stood  pitching  down  the 
hill,  and  here  and  there  a  rose-bush  or  lilac  lopped  aside  devoid 
of  beauty,  except  the  silver  seives  woven  amongst  them  by  the 
black  and  yellow  spiders. 

ILL 

The  little  cart  in  which  Charlotte  Ryan  rode  with  her  father 
rattled  terribly  ;  it  seemed  never  to  have  made  so  much  noise 
till  then  ;  it  would  betray  their  poverty,  but  if  her  father  would 
only  drive  softly  and  leave  the  cart  at  the  gate,  it  doubtless 
would  be  supposed  that  they  had  come  in  a  more  stylish  way. 
Mr.  Ryan,  however,  was  a  plain  blunt  farmer,  and  would  have 
driven  his  little  cart  up  to  the  White  House,  and  elbowed  his 
way  through  the  Cabinet  without  a  fear  or  a  blush  fur  his 
home-spun  dress  or  country  breeding,  if  he  had  felt  inclined  to 
pay  his  respects  to  the  President — and  why  indeed  should  he 
not?  He  was  a  yeoman,  and  not  ashamed  of  being  a  yeoman 
— what  cause  had  he  to  be?  But  a  pride  of  despising  all  inno¬ 
vation,  all  elegance,  were  peculiarities  that  stood  in  his  light. 
So,  as  I  said,  he  dashed  forward  at  a  rapid  and  noisy  rate,  feel¬ 
ing  much,  honest  man,  as  though  the  sound  of  his  wagon  wheels 
would  be  the  gladdest  one  his  friends  ever  heard.  Nor  did  he 
slacken  rein  till  the  feet  of  his  work  horses  struck  on  the  pave¬ 
ment  before  the  main  entrance  of  the  house,  and  with  their 
sides  panting  against  the  wide  bands  of  faded  leather  composing 
their  harness,  stood  champing  the  bit,  and  foaming  as  though 
they  had  run  a  race. 

Poor  Charlotte  !  she  could  scarcely  rise  out  of  the  straw  in 
which  she  was  imbedded,  when  the  hall-door  opened,  and  Cap¬ 
tain  Bailey,  followed  by  his  two  daughters,  came  forward  to 
meet  her  and  her  father,  with  self-possession  and  well-bred  cor- 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 


2  oo 


diality.  The  young  women  not  only  kissed  her,  but  imposed 
a  similar  infliction  on  the  dear  uncle,  making  many  tender  in¬ 
quiries  about  the  aunt  and  sweet  little  cousins  at  home;  but 
when  Captain  Bailey  offered  his  arm,  saying,  “  This  way,  my 
dear,”  the  discomfiture  of  the  niece  was  completed,  and  slipping 
two  fingers  over  his  elbow,  and  at  arm’s  length  from  him,  she 
entered  the  hall,  trying  her  best  not  to  hear  her  father  say — 
“Bless  your  souls,  gals, I  don’t  want  your  sarvent  man,”  as  he 
went  lustily  to  unharness  his  horses,  just  as  he  would  have 
done  at  home. 

“We  are  so  glad  you  are  come,”  said  the  cousins;  “we 
want  you  to  teach  us  so  many  things ;”  but  Charlotte  felt  that 
though  the  last  part  of  the  sentence  might  be  true,  the  first  was 
not — for  we  instinctive!  v  recognize  the  difference  between  formal 
politeness  and  real  heartiness.  Partly  because  she  thought  she 
ought  to  do  so,  and  partly  because  her  conflicting  emotions 
could  find  vent  in  no  other  way,  she  began  to  cry. 

“  Are  you  sick  T’  asked  the  girls,  really  concerned,  for  their 
sense  of  propriety  would  not  have  allowed  of  such  an  ebulition 
of  feeling  on  any  occasion,  much  less  on  one  so  trivial.  They 
could  not  imagine  why  she  cried — models  of  propriety  that 
they  were — unless  indeed,  she  were  in  great  bodily  pain. 

Presently  Mr.  Ryan,  having  attended  to  the  duties  of  the 
groom,  came  in,  bearing  in  each  hand  a  small  budget,  contain¬ 
ing  presents  of  his  choicest  apples,  saying  as  he  presented  them, 
“  These  apples  my  daughter  here  helped  me  to  gather,  and  we 
have  a  hundred  bushels  as  fine  at  home.” 

The  father  was  now  appealed  to  for  an  explanation  of  Char¬ 
lotte’s  conduct,  for  she  had  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
and  sat  in  an  obscure  corner,  sobbing  to  herself. 

“  She  sees  so  many  strange,  new,  and  fine  things  that  she  is 
not  used  to,”  he  said,  for  he  could  understand  her;  “they 
make  her  feel  kind  of  bad  and  home-sick  like.  Charlotte,”  he 
continued,  speaking  as  he  would  to  a  child,  “  wipe  up  your 
eyes,  and  let’s  see  how  much  better  your  uncle’s  stock  is  than 
ours.” 

Glad  of  any  excuse  to  escape  from  the  cold  speculation  of 
the  eyes  that  were  on  her,  the  daughter  obeyed,  making  neither 


25C 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


excuse  nor  apology  for  the  abrupt  and  somewhat  inquisitive 

procedure. 

The  sunshine  soon  dried  up  her  tears,  for  her  spirit  was 
healthful,  and  though  she  had  given  way  to  a  brief  impulse  of 
sorrow,  it  was  not  an  expression  of  habitual  sickliness  of  feel¬ 
ing.  Her  father’s  repeated  exclamations  of  surprise  and  con¬ 
tempt  for  the  bad  culture  and  bad  stock,  helped,  too,  to  reas¬ 
sure  her,  and  she  returned  at  length  to  the  house,  her  crushed 
self  esteem  built  up  in  part,  at  least ;  but  contrasts  unfavorable 
to  herself  would  present  themselves,  in  spite  of  efforts  to-keep 
them  down,  whenever  her  brown  hands  touched  the  lily  ones 
of  her  cousins,  or  when  the  noise  of  her  coarse  shoes  reminded 
her  of  their  delicate  slippers ;  and  when  toward  sunset  the 
horses  were  brought  out,  feeling  smart,  for  they  had  had  a 
visitor’s  portion  of  oats,  she  half  wished  she  was  to  go  back, 
especially  when  she  remembered  the  contents  of  the  little  bun¬ 
dle  she  had  brought  with  her,  containing  what  she  considered 
the  choice  portion  of  her  wardrobe. 

But  I  need  not  dwell  longer  on  this  phase  of  her  experience. 
In  education,  in  knowledge  of  the  world,  in  the  fashionable 
modes  of  dress,  the  Misses  Bailey  were  in  the  advance  of  her, 
as  much  as  she,  in  good  sense,  natural  refinement,  and  instinct¬ 
ive  perceptions  of  fitness,  was  superior  to  them.  But  unfortu¬ 
nately  she  could  see  much  more  clearly  their  advantages  than 
her  own.  Falling  back  on  the  deficiencies  of  which  she  was 
so  painfully  aware,  she  could  not  think  it  possible  that  she 
possessed  any  advantage  whatever,  much  less  any  personal 
charms. 

All  the  while  the  envied  cousins  were  envious  of  her  roseate 
complexion,  elasticity  of  movement,  and  black  heavy  braids 
of  hair,  arranged,  though  they  were,  something  ungracefully. 
The  books  which  they  kept,  to  be  admired  rather  than  read, 
afforded  her  much  delight,  and  alone  with  these  or  with  her 
uncle,  the  homesick  and  restless  feeling  was  sometimes  almost 
forgotten ;  for  Captain  Bailey  was  kind  from  the  impulses  of 
his  nature,  and  not  because  he  thought  it  duty  or  policy.  The 
cheerful  and  natural  aspect  which  things  assumed  under  the 
transforming  hands  of  Charlotte  gave  him  excessive  delight, 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 


257 


and  then  when  her  work  was  done,  she  would  tie  on  her  sun- 
bonnet,  and  accompany  him  in  his  walks  through  the  fields  and 
woods,  making  plans  with  him  for  the  next  year’s  culture  and 
improvements.  In  the  evenings  she  read  to  him,  or  listened  to 
stories  of  the  sea,  which  it  gave  him  pleasure  to  relate ;  while 
the  young  ladies  mourned  at  one  side  of  the  room  over  their 
hapless  fate — wishing  themselves  back  in  their  old  home,  or 
that  Mrs.  so,  or  so,  would  come  out  to  the  West,  and  give  such 
parties  as  she  used. 

“  But  then,”  said  they,  “  there  is  nobody  here  that  is  any¬ 
body,”  and  so  the  mere  supposition  that  a  fashionable  lady 
might  come  West  and  give  parties,  hops,  re-unions,  &c.,  was 
but  a  new  source  of  discontent. 

Sometimes  they  recounted,  partly  for  the  pleasure  of  hear¬ 
ing  themselves,  and  partly  to  astonish  and  dazzle  their  country 
cousin,  the  various  elegant  costumes  they  had  worn,  on  what, 
to  them,  were  the  most  interesting  occasions  of  their  lives  ; 
and  after  all,  they  were  not  so  much  to  blame — it  was  natural 
that  they  should  pine  for  their  native  air,  and  for  the  gaieties 
to  which  they  had  been  accustomed.  But  to  Charlotte,  whose 
notions  of  filial  respect  were  almost  reverent,  it  was  a  matter 
of  painful  surprise  that  they  never  mentioned  their  mother,  or 
in  any  way  alluded  to  her,  except  in  complaints  of  the  mourn¬ 
ing  clothes,  which  compelled  them  to  be  so  plain.  Neither 
brain  nor  heart  of  either  was  ample  enough  for  a  great 
sorrow. 

At  first  Charlotte  had  lent  her  aid  in  the  management  and 
completion  of  household  affairs  with  hearty  good  will,  but  the 
more  she  did  the  more  seemed  to  be  expected  of  her — the  la¬ 
dies  could  n’t  learn  because  they  paid  no  attention  to  her  teach¬ 
ing,  and  took  no  interest  in  it,  though  never  was  there  a  more 
painstaking  instructor.  All  persons  are  not  gifted  alike,  they 
said,  “  it  seems  so  easy  for  you  to  work.”  But  in  what  their 
own  gifts  consisted  it  were  hard  to  tell. 

“  Really,  cousin  Charlotte  is  quite  companionable  some¬ 
times,’'  said  Sally,  one  day — laying  emphasis  on  the  word 
cousin — after  partaking  of  some  of  her  fresh-baked  pumpkin 
pies. 


258 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“  But  it’s  a  pity,”  replied  Kate,  “  that  she  only  appears  to 
advantage  in  the  kitchen.  Now  what  in  the  world  would  you 
do  if  Dr.  Opdike,  or  Lawyer  Dingley,  or  any  of  that  set  were 
to  come  ?” 

“  Why,”  said  Sally,  laughing,  “  I  always  think  it’s  as  well  to 
tell  the  truth,  when  there  is  no  particular  advantage  to  be 
gained  by  telling  anything  else,  so  I  should  simply  say — ‘  A 
country  cousin,  whom  father  has  taken  a  fancy  to  patronize.’” 

Kate  laughed,  and  taking  with  them  some  light  romance,  fit 
suited  to  wile  the  way  into  dreamland,  they  retired  to  their 
chamber. 

“  Suppose  we  steal  a  march  on  the  girls,”  said  Captain  Bai¬ 
ley,  entering  the  room  where  Charlotte  was  engaged  in  idle  en¬ 
deavors  to  make  her  hair  curl — “what  say  you  to  riding  into 
town  V 

Charlotte  hesitated,  for  nothing  called  her  to  town  except  the 
search  for  pleasure,  and  she  had  been  unaccustomed  to  go  out  of 
her  way  for  that ;  but  directly  yielding  to  persuasion,  she  was 
tying  on  her  bonnet,  when  the  Captain,  desirous  of  improving 
her  toilet,  suggested  that  she  should  not  wear  her  best  hat,  but 
the  old  hack  of  Kate  or  Sally.  The  little  straw  bonnet,  which 
looked  smart  enough  at  the  prayer  meetings  and  “  circuit 
preachings”  of  the  log  school-house,  became  suddenly  hateful, 
and  the  plain  white  ribbon,  crossed  about  the  crown,  only  in 
keeping  with  summer,  and  seventy  years.  Her  cheeks  flushed 
as  her  trembling  hands  removed  her  favorite  bonnet,  and  the 
uncle  continued — “just  bring  along  Kate’s  white  cashmere, 
while  you  are  about  it — yours  will  be  too  warm  to-day,  I 
think.” 

The  shawl  which  Charlotte  proposed  to  wear  was  a  coarse 
black  woolen  one,  which  had  already  been  worn  by  her  mother 
for  twenty  years,  or  thereabouts,  and  though  she  had  never 
looked  so  well  in  her  life,  as  in  the  old  bonnet  and  shawl  be¬ 
longing  to  Kate,  still  she  felt  ill  at  ease,  and  could  not  suppress 
a  wish  that  she  had  at  once  declined  the  invitation.  Captain 
Bailey,  who  was  really  a  kind-hearted  man,  exerted  himself  to 
dissipate  the  cloud  which  weighed  down  her  spirit,  but  ever 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 


259 


and  anon  she  turned  aside  to  wipe  the  tears  away.  My  wish 
was  being  fulfilled — Charlotte  had  attained  a  new  position. 

“  Now,  my  dear,”  said  the  uncle,  as  he  assisted  Charlotte 
out  of  the  carriage,  before  the  most  fashionable  dry-goods  shop 
of  the  city,  “  you  must  favor  me  by  accepting  a  new  gown  and 
hat,  and  whatever  other  trifles  you  may  fancy  to  have.” 

“  Oh,  no,  no  !”  she  said,  blushing,  but  dissent  was  not  to  be 
listened  to — she  was  merely  desired  to  select  one  from  among 
the  many  varieties  of  silks  thrown  on  the  counter. 

Now  the  purchasing  of  a  silk  dress  was  in  the  estimation  of 
Charlotte,  a  proceeding  of  very  grave  importance,  not  to  be 
thus  hastily  gone  into.  She  would  consent  to  accept  of  a  cal¬ 
ico — positively  of  nothing  more — and  on  being  assured  by  the 
clerks,  as  they  brought  forward  some  highly  colored  prints, 
that  they  were  the  patterns  most  in  vogue,  she  selected  one  of 
mingled  red  and  yellow,  declined  to  receive  anything  further, 
and  returned  home,  saddened  and  injured,  rather  than  glad  and 
grateful.  She  could  not  help  wishing  she  had  remained  in  her 
old  haunts  instead  of  going  where  people  were  ashamed  of  her 
— and  then  would  come  the  more  crushing  and  bitter  thoughts 
which  justified  the  feelings  with  which  they  regarded  her  ;  and 
so,  in  alternate  emotions  of  self-contempt  and  honest  and  indig¬ 
nant  pride,  she  continued  to  think  and  think — sometimes  disre¬ 
garding  and  sometimes  answering  briefly  and  coldly  the  vari¬ 
ous  remarks  of  her  kind  relative.  The  sun  had  set  an  hour 
when  the  white  walls  of  his  house  appeared  in  the  distance,  and 
as  they  approached  nearer,  it  was  evident  from  the  lights  and 
laughter  within,  that  the  occasion  with  the  inmates  was  an  unu¬ 
sually  joyous  one. 

At  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  hall,  Kate  came  hurriedly 
forth  to  communicate  the  intelligence  of  the  arrival  of  a  friend, 
“  Mr.  Sully  Dinsinore,  a  young  author  of  rising  eminence,  and 
a  man  whose  acquaintance  was  worth  having” — and  she  con¬ 
tinued,  as  her  father  observed — “  glad  to  have  you  know  him, 
Charlotte” — “  Of  course  you  will  like  to  make  some  change  in 
your  toilet — the  dress  you  have  on  affects  your  complexion 
shockingly.” 

Charlotte  assented,  not  knowing  how  she  was  to  improve  her 


260 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


appearance,  inasmuch  as  she  then  wore  the  best  clothes  she 

possessed. 

Once  in  the  dressing  room,  she  threw  indignantly  aside  what 
appeared  to  her  but  borrowed  finery,  and  gave  way  to  such 
a  passion  of  tears  as  never  before  had  dimmed  her  beautiful 
eyes. 

She  was  disturbed  at  length  by  a  light  tap  at  the  door,  fol¬ 
lowed  by  an  inquiry  of  her  uncle  whether  she  were  not  ready 
to  go  below.  “  Thank  you,  I  do  n’t  wish  to  go,”  she  replied, 
with  as  much  steadiness  of  voice  as  she  could  command ;  but 
her  sorrow  betrayed  itself,  and  the  kindly  entreaties  which 
should  have  soothed,  only  aggravated  it. 

“  Well,  my  dear,”  said  the  uncle,  as  if  satisfied,  seeing  that 
she  was  really  unpresentable,  “  if  you  will  come  down  and 
make  a  cup  of  tea,  you  and  I  will  have  the  pleasure  of  parta¬ 
king  of  it  by  ourselves.” 

This  little  stratagem  succeeded  in  part,  and  in  the  bustling 
preparation  of  supper,  the  smile  of  resignation,  if  not  of  gaiety, 
came  back  ;  for  Charlotte’s  heart  was  good  and  pure,  and  her 
hands  quick  always  in  the  service  of  another.  The  benevolent 
uncle  prudently  forbore  any  reference  to  guest  or  drawing¬ 
room  for  the  evening,  and  leading  the  conversation  into  un¬ 
looked-for  channels,  only  betrayed  by  unusual  kindness  of  man¬ 
ner  a  remembrance  of  the  unhappy  incidents  of  the  day.  A 
practiced  observer,  however,  might  have  detected  the  tenor  of 
his  thoughts,  in  the  liberal  amount  of  cream  and  sugar — twice 
as  much  as  she  desired — infused  into  the  tea  of  the  gentle  niece, 
whose  pained  heart  throbbed  sensitively,  while  her  lips  smiled 
thanks. 

IV. 

The  orange  light  of  the  coming  sunrise  was  widening  among 
the  eastern  clouds,  and  the  grass  that  had  till  then  kept  green, 
stood  stiff  in  the  white  frost,  when  the  quick  step  of  Charlotte 
broke  rather  than  bent  it  down,  for  she  had  risen  early  to  milk 
the  spotted  heifer  ere  any  one  should  be  astir.  She  tripped 
gracefully  along,  unconscious  that  earnest  eyes  were  on  her, 
singing  snatches  of  rural  songs,  and  drinking  the  beauty  of  the 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 


261 


sunrise  with  the  eyes  of  a  poet.  Half  playfully,  and  half  an¬ 
grily,  the  heifer  shook  her  horns  of  pearly  green  for  such 
untimely  rousing  from  the  warm  grassy  hollow  in  which  she 
lay,  but  the  white  pine  pail  was  soon  brimming  with  milk. 

The  wind  blew  aside  Charlotte’s  little  hood,  and  with  cheeks, 
flushed  with  the  air,  and  the  exercise,  gleaming  through  the 
tangles  of  her  black  hair,  she  really  presented  a  picture  refresh¬ 
ing  to  look  on,  especially  to  eyes  wearied  with  artificial  com¬ 
plexions  and  curls.  As  she  arose  the  hues  deepened,  and  she 
drew  the  hood  quickly  forward — for  standing  midway  in  the 
crooked  path  leading  from  the  door-yard  to  the  cow-yard,  and 
shelling  corn  to  a  flock  of  chickens  gathered  about  him,  was 
Mr.  Sully  Dinsmore — a  rather  good  looking,  pleasant-faced 
young  man  of  thirty  or  thereabout.  He  bowed  with  graceful 
ease  as  the  girl  approached,  and  followed  his  salutation  by 
some  jest  about  the  fowl  proceeding  in  which  he  had  been  de¬ 
tected,  and  at  the  same  time  took  from  her  hand  the  pail  with 
an  air  and  manner  which  seemed  to  say  he  had  been  used  to 
carrying  milk-pails  all  his  life — there  was  nothing  he  liked  so 
well,  in  fact.  Charlotte  had  no  time  for  embarrassment — defer¬ 
ence  was  so  blended  with  familiarity — and  beside,  the  gentle¬ 
man  apologized  so  sweetly  and  sadly  for  the  informal  intro¬ 
duction  he  had  given  himself :  the  young  lady  looked  so  like 
one — he  hesitated — like  his  own  dear  wife — and  he  continued 
with  a  sigh,  “  she  sleeps  now  among  the  mountains.”  He  was 
silent  a  moment,  and  then  went  on  as  if  forcibly  rallying, 
“This  is  a  delightful  way  to  live,  is  it  not?  We  always  in¬ 
tended,  poor  Florence  and  I,  to  come  to  the  West,  buy  a  farm, 
and  pass  the  evening  of  our  days  in  quiet  independence  ;  but,” 
in  a  more  subdued  tone,  “  I  had  never  money  enough  till  dear 
Florence  died,  and  since  that  I  have  cared  little  about  my  way 
of  life — little  about  life  at  all.” 

Charlotte’s  sympathies  were  aroused.  Poor  man,  his  cheek 
did  look  pale,  and  doubtless  it  was  to  dissipate  his  grief  that 
he  was  there;  and  with  simple  earnestness  she  expressed  a 
hope,  that  the  bright  hills  and  broad  forests  of  the  West  might 
restore  something  of  the  old  healthiness  of  feeling  in  his  heart. 

His  thanks  were  given  with  the  tone  and  manner  of  one  sin- 


262 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


cerely  grateful ;  the  gay  worldlings,  he  said,  with  whom  he 
had  been  fated  mostly  to  mingle,  could  not  appreciate  his 
feelings.  All  this  required  much  less  time  than  1  have  taken 
to  record  it,  for  the  gentleman  made  the  most  of  the  brief 
walk. 

At  the  door  Captain  Bailey  met  them,  and  with  a  look  of 
mingled  surprise  and  curiosity,  was  beginning  a  formal  present¬ 
ation,  when  Mr.  Dinsmore  assured  him  such  ceremony  was 
quite  unnecessary — each  had  recognized  a  friend  in  the  other, 
he  said,  and  they  were  already  progressing  toward  very  inti¬ 
mate  relations,  No  sooner  had  Charlotte  disappeared,  with 
her  pail  and  strainer,  than,  abruptly  changing  tone  and  manner, 
he  exclaimed,  “  DevTsh  pretty  girl — I  hope  she  remains  here 
as  long  as  I  do  !” 

The  Captain,  who  was  displeased,  affected  ignorance  of  what 
had  been  said,  and  bent  his  steps  in  rather  a  hurried  way 
toward  the  barn. 

“  Propose  to  fodder  the  stock,  eh  ?”  called  out  Mr.  Dins¬ 
more  :  “  allow  me  to  join  you — just  the  business  I  was  brought 
up  to  do.”  And  coming  forward,  he  linked  his  arm  through 
that  of  the  stout  Captain,  and  brought  him  to  a  sudden  stand¬ 
still,  saying,  with  the  delightful  enthusiasm  of  a  voyager  come 
to  the  beautiful  shore  of  a  new  country,  “  What  a  wonderful 
scene — forest  and  meadow,  and  orchards  and  wrheat-fields  !  why, 
Captain,  you  are  a  rich  man ;  if  I  owned  this  place  I  should  n’t 
want  anything  beside — no  other  place  half  so  good  about  here, 
I  suppose  ? — in  fact,  it  seems  to  me,  in  all  my  travels,  I  never 
saw  such  a  farm — just  enough  of  it — let’s  see,  what’s  its  extent? 
Yes,  I  thought  you  must  have  just  about  that  much ;  and,  if  I 
had  never  seen  it,  I  could  have  sworn  it  was  the  best  farm  in 
the  country,  because  I  know  the  soundness  of  your  judgment, 
you  see !” 

The  Captain  drew  himself  up,  and  surveyed  the  prospect 
more  proudly  than  he  had  done  before,  saying  he  ought  to 
know  something  of  good  land,  and  favorable  localities — he  had 
seen  something  of  the  world. 

“  W  hy,”  answered  Mr.  Sully  Dinsmore,  as  though  his  host 
had  not  done  half  justice  to  himself,  “  I  guess  there  is  not  much 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 


263 


of  the  world  worth  seeing  that  you  have  not  seen ;  you  have 
been  a  great  traveler,  Captain  ;  and  you  know  what  you  see, 
too,”  he  added  in  a  tone  acceptably  insinuating. 

“Yes,  yes,  that  is  true:  few  men  know  better  what  they 
see  than  Captain  Bailey,”  and  he  began  pointing  out  the  vari¬ 
ous  excellencies  and  attractions  of  his  place  which  the  young 
man  did  not  seem  to  have  observed. 

“  No  wonder,”  Mr.  Dinsmore  proceeded,  “  my  vision  was  too 
much  dazzled  to  take  all  in  at  once ;  you  must  remember,  I  am 
only  used  to  rugged  hills  and  bleak  rocks,  where  the  farmers 
fasten  the  grain  down  with  stones,  lest  being  indignant  at  the 
poor  soil,  it  should  scrabble  out,  you  see.”  This  word  was 
coined  with  special  reference  to  the  Captain,  who  sometimes 
found  himself  reduced  to  such  necessities.  An  approving  peal 
of  laughter  rewarded  his  pains,  and  he  repeated  it,  “Yes,  the 
grain  would  actually  scrabble  out  but  for  the  stones ;  so  you 
see  it’s  natural  my  eyes  failed  to  perceive  all  those  waves  of 
beauty  and  plenty.”  Where  he  saw  the  waves  referred  to, 
only  himself  could  have  told,  for  the  stubble  land  looked  bleak 
enough,  and  the  November  woods  dark  and  withered  to  dreari¬ 
ness.  “Well,  Captain,”  he  said  at  last,  as  though  the  scene 
were  a  continual  delight  to  his  eyes,  “  it’s  of  no  use — I  could 
stand  gazing  all  day — so  let  us  fodder  those  fine  cattle  of 
yours.” 

With  good  will  he  entered  upon  the  work — seizing  bundles 
of  oats  and  corn-blades,  and  dusty  hay,  regardless  of  broad¬ 
cloths  and  linen;  now  patting  the  neck  of  some  clumsy- horned, 
long-legged  steer,  calling  to  the  Captain  to  know  if  he  were  not 
of  the  full  blood  ;  and  now,  as  he  scattered  the  bushel  of  oats 
among  the  little  flock  of  thin  and  dirty  sheep,  inquiring,  with 
the  deepest  interest  apparently,  if  they  were  not  something  su¬ 
perior  to  the  southdowns  or  merinos — for  the  wool  was  as  fine 
as  could  be. 

The  “chores”  completed,  they  returned  to  the  house,  but 
Mr.  Dinsmore  found  so  many  things  to  admire  by  the  way  that 
their  progress  was  slow ;  now  he  paused  at  the  gateway  to  re¬ 
mark  what  nice  strong  posts  they  were — he  believed  they  were 
of  cedar;  and  now  he  turned  in  admiration  of  the  smoke-house 


2G4 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


— a  ruinous  and  exceedingly  diminutive  building  of  bricks,  of 
which  the  walls  were  overgrown  with  moss,  the  roof  sunken, 
and  the  door  off  its  hinges :  they  seemed  to  him  about  the  best 
bricks  he  ever  saw — moss  would  n’t  gather  over  them  if  they 
were  not  solid  as  a  rock — “  what  a  pleasing  effect  it  has,” 
he  said. 

“  A  little  out  of  repair,”  said  the  Captain,  “  and  too  small — 
too  small !  I  think  of  enlarging,”  and  he  attempted  to  urge 
his  companion  forward. 

“  But,”  interposed  the  guest,  still  gazing  at  the  smoke-house, 
“  that  is  one  of  your  few  errors  of  judgment :  I  would  n’t  have 
it  an  inch  bigger,  nor  an  inch  less ;  and  besides,  the  moss  is 
prettier  than  any  paint.” 

“  I  must  put  up  the  door,  at  least,”  interrupted  the  Captain. 

“  Ay,  no  sir,  let  me  advise  you  to  the  contrary.  Governor 
Patterson,  of  New  Jersey,  smokes  all  his  meat,  and  has  for 
twenty  years,  in  a  house  without  a  door — it  makes  the  flavor 
finer — I  thought  it  was  built  so  on  purpose — if  ever  I  have  a 
farm  I  should  make  your  smoke-house  a  model.” 

This  morning  all  the  household  tasks  had  fallen  on  Charlotte. 
“She  went  to  bed  early,”  said  the  cousins,  “  and  can  afford  to 
get  up  early — besides,  she  has  no  toilet  to  make,  as  we  have.” 

But  though  they  gave  her  the  trouble  of  delaying  the  break¬ 
fast,  after  she  had  prepared  it,  Charlotte  was  amply  repaid  for 
all,  in  the  praises  bestowed  on  her  coffee  and  toast  by  Mr.  Sully 
Dinsmore.  Her  uncle,  too,  said  she  had  never  looked  so  pret¬ 
ty,  that  her  hair  was  arranged  in  most  becoming  style,  and  that 
her  dress  suited  her  complexion. 

“  Really,  Lotty,  I  am  growing  jealous,”  said  Kate,  tossing 
her  head  in  a  way  meant  to  be  at  once  irresistibly  captivating, 
and  patronizing. 

Kate  had  never  said  “  Lotty”  before,  but  seeing  that  Mr. 
Dinsmore  was  not  shocked  with  the  rural  cousin,  she  thought  it 
politic  to  make  the  most  of  her,  and  from  that  moment  glided 
into  the  most  loving  behavior.  Lotty  was  a  dear  little  crea¬ 
ture,  in  her  way,  quite  pretty — and  she  was  such  a  house¬ 
keeper  !  Finally,  it  was  concluded  to  make  a  “  virtue  of  neces¬ 
sity,”  and  acknowledge  that  they  were  learning  to  keep  house 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 


265 


themselves — in  truth,  they  thought  it  fine  fun,  and  preferred 
to  have  as  few  troublesome  servants  about  as  possible. 

So  a  few  days  glided  swiftly  and  pleasantly  to  Charlotte, 
notwithstanding  that  most  of  the  household  labor — all  its 
drudgery — devolved  on  her.  What  cared  she  for  this,  while 
the  sunrise  of  a  paradisal  morning  was  glorifying  the  world. 
Kate  and  Sally  offered  their  assistance  in  making  the  new  dress, 
and  contrived  various  little  articles,  which  they  said  would  re¬ 
lieve  the  high  colors,  and  have  a  stylish  effect.  These  arts,  to 
the  simple-minded  country  girl,  were  altogether  novel — at 
home  she  had  never  heard  of  “  becoming  dress.”  She,  as  well 
as  all  the  girls  whom  she  knew,  had  been  in  the  habit  of  going 
to  towm  once  or  twice  a  year,  when  the  butter  brought  the  best 
price,  or  when  a  load  of  hay  or  a  cow  was  sold,  and  purchasing 
a  dress,  bonnet,  &c.,  without  regard  to  color  or  fashion.  A 
new  thing  wras  supposed  to  look  well,  and  to  their  unpractised 
eyes  always  did  look  well. 

“Come  here,  Lotty,”  said  Kate,  one  evening,  surveying  her 
cousin,  as  she  hooked  the  accustomed  old  black  silk.  “Just 
slip  off  that  old-womanish  thing,”  she  continued,  as  Charlotte 
approached — and  ere  the  young  girl  was  aware,  the  silk  dress 
that  had  been  regarded  with  so  much  reverence  wras  deprived 
of  both  its  sleeves.  “  Oh  mercy  !  what  will  mother  say  wras 
her  first  exclamation  ;  but  Kate  wras  in  no  wise  affected  by  the 
amputation  she  had  effected,  and  coolly  surveying  her  work? 
said  “  Yes,  you  look  a  thousand  dollars  better.”  And  she 
continued,  as  Charlotte  wras  pinning  on  the  large  cape  she  had 
been  used  to  wear,  “  Have  you  the  rheumatism  in  the  shoul¬ 
ders,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  or  why  do  you  wrap  up  like  a 
grandmother  at  a  woods-meeting'?” 

Charlotte  could  only  say,  “Just  because” — it  was,  however, 
that  she  desired  to  conceal  as  much  of  her  bare  arms  as  possi¬ 
ble  ;  and  it  was  not  without  many  entreaties  and  persuasions 
that  she  was  induced  to  appear  with  arms  uncovered  and  a  sim¬ 
ple  white  frill  about  her  neck. 

“  What  a  pity,”  said  the  cousins,  as  they  made  up  the  red 
calico,  “  that  she  had  not  consulted  us,  and  spent  her  money 


266 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


the  other  day  for  ruffles  and  ribbons  instead  of  this  fantastic 
thing !” 

They  regarded  her  in  a  half-pitying,  half- friendly  light,  and, 
perhaps,  under  the  circumstances,  did  the  best  they  could  ;  for 
though  Charlotte  had  many  of  the  instincts  of  refinement,  she 
had  been  accustomed  to  a  rude  way  of  living,  and  a  first  con¬ 
tact  with  educated  society  will  not  rub  off  the  crust  of  rusticity 
which  has  been  years  in  gathering. 

“  I  have  been  too  sensitive,”  thought  Charlotte,  or  she  tried 
to  think  so,  and  if  her  heart  ever  throbbed  wildly  against  some 
delicate  insinuation  or  implied  rebuke,  she  crushed  it  down 
again,  blaming  her  own  awkwardness  and  ignorance  rather  than 
the  fine  relations  w7ho  had  stood  pre-eminent  in  her  childish 
imagination.  She  might  not  so  readily  have  reconciled  herself 
to  the  many  mortifications  she  endured,  but  for  the  sustaining 
influence  of  Mr.  Dinsmore’s  smiles  and  encouraging  words. 
Ever  ready  to  praise,  and  writh  never  a  word  of  blame,  he 
would  say  to  the  other  ladies,  “you  are  looking  shocking  to¬ 
night,”  and  they  could  afford  to  bear  it — they  never  did  look 
so  ;  but  whatever  Charlotte  wore  was  in  exquisite  taste — at 
least  he  said  so.  And  yet  Mr.  Dinsmore  was  not  really  and 
at  heart  a  hypocrite,  except  indeed  in  the  continued  and  osten¬ 
tatious  display  of  private  griefs.  Constitutionally,  he  was  a 
flatterer,  so  that  he  could  not  pass  the  veriest  mendicant  with¬ 
out  pausing  to  say,  “Really,  you  areas  fine  a  looking  old  beg¬ 
gar-man  as  I  have  met  this  many  a  day  !”  Whether  he  was 
disinterested  and  desired  only  to  confer  pleasure  upon  others, 
or  whether  he  wished  to  win  hearts  to  himself,  I  know  not — I 
only  know,  no  opportunity  of  speaking  gracious  words  ever 
escaped  him. 

However  or  whatever  this  disposition  was,  Charlotte  inter¬ 
preted  all  his  speeches  kindly.  “She  had  eyes  only  for  what 
was  good,”  he  said,  and  the  sombre  shadow  of  affliction  in 
which  he  stood,  certainly  gave  him  an  appearance  of  sincerity. 
When  the  Misses  Bailey  were  thrown,  or  rather  when  they 
threw  themselves  in  his  way,  he  said  his  delight  could  not  be 
expressed — they  seemed  to  have  the  air  of  the  mountain  maids 
about  them  that  made  him  feel  at  home  in  their  presence. 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 


267 


But  when  he  praised  one,  generally,  he  disparaged  another,  and 
he  not  unfrequently  said  on  these  occasions,  “  I  have  been  sac¬ 
rificing  an  hour  to  that  country  cousin  of  yours,”  or,  “1  have 
been  benevolently  engaged,”  pointing  toward  Charlotte.  Then 
came  exchanges  of  smiles  and  glances,  which  seemed  to  say, 
“We  understand  each  other  perfectly — and  nobody  else  under¬ 
stands  us.”  One  day,  while  thus  engaged  in  playing  the  agree¬ 
able,  Charlotte  having  finished  her  dish-washing,  came  in,  her 
hands  red  and  shining  from  the  suds.  Mr.  Dinsmore  smiled, 
and,  with  meaning,  added,  “  Do  you  remember  where  Eliza¬ 
beth  tells  some  clodhopper,  the  reputed  husband  of  Amy 
Robsart,  I  think,  that  his  boots  well  nigh  overcame  my  Lord 
of  Leicester’s  perfumery  !”  and  in  the  burst  of  laughter  which 
followed,  the  diplomatist  rose  and  joined  the  unsuspecting  girl, 
saying,  as  he  seated  himself  beside  her,  and  playfully  took  two 
of  her  fingers  in  his,  “  You  have  been  using  yellow  soap,  and 
the  fragrance  attracted  me  at  once — there  is  no  perfume  1  like 
half  so  well.  Why,  you  might  spend  hundreds  of  dollars  for 
essential  oils,  and  nice  extracts,  and  after  all,  if  I  could  get  it,  I 
would  prefer  the  aroma  of  common  yellow  soap — it’s  better 
than  that  of  violets.” 

“J  have  been  talking  to  those  frivolous  girls,”  he  continued, 
after  a  moment,  and  with  the  manner  of  one  who  had  been  act¬ 
ing  a  part  and  was  really  glad  to  be  himself  again  :  “  rather 
pretty,”  in  a  soliloquising  sort  of  way,  “  but  their  beauty  is  not 
of  the  fresh,  healthful  style  I  admire.” 

“  I  thought,”  said  Charlotte,  half  pettishly,  “  you  admired  them 
very  much  !” 

“  Yes,  as  I  would  a  butterfly,”  he  said,  “but  they  have  not 
the  thrifty  and  industrious  habits  that  could  ever  win  my  seri¬ 
ous  regard — my  love;”  and  his  earnest  tone  and' admiring  look 
were  more  flattering  than  the  meaning  of  his  words.  '  Charlotte 
crushed  her  handkerchief  with  one  hand  and  smoothed  her 
heavy  black  hair  writh  the  other,  to  conceal  the  red  burning  of 
her  cheek.  Mr.  Dinsmore  continued,  “Yes,  I  have  been  think¬ 
ing  since  I  came  here,  that  this  is  the  best  way  in  the  world 
to  obtain  health  and  happiness — this  rural  way  of  life,  I  mean. 
Just  see  what  a  glorious  scene  presents  itself!”  and  he  drew’  the 


268 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


young  girl  to  the  recess  of  a  window,  and  talked  of  the  cattle 
and  sheep,  the  meadow  and  woodland,  with  the  enthusiasm  of 
a  devoted  practical  farmer. 

“  Of  course,”  said  Charlotte,  “  my  predilections  are  all  in  fa¬ 
vor  of  the  habits  to  which  I  have  been  used.” 

“  Another  proof  of  your  genuine  good  sense,”  and  Mr.  Dins- 
more  folded  close  both  the  little  red  hands  of  Charlotte  within 
his  own  soft  white  ones,  but  with  less  of  gallantry  than  sincere 
appreciation  of  her  sweet  simplicity  and  domestic  excellencies. 
And  he  presently  went  on  to  say,  that  if  he  ever  found  any 
happiness  again,  it  must  be  writh  some  such  dear  angel  as  her¬ 
self,  and  in  the  healthful,  inspiriting  occupation  of  a  farmer. 
True,  he  did  not  say  in  so  many  simple  words,  “  I  should  like 
to  marry  you,  Charlotte,”  but  the  nameless  things  words  can¬ 
not  interpret,  said  it  very  plainly  to  the  unsophisticated,  sim¬ 
ple-minded,  true-hearted  Charlotte.  Poor  man,  he  seemed  to 
her  so  melancholy,  so  shut  out  from  sympathy,  it  was  almost 
a  dutyr  to  lighten  the  weary  load  that  oppressed  him. 

But  I  cannot  record  all  the  sentiment  mingled  in  the  recess 

O 

of  that  window.  I  am  ignorant  of  some  particulars  ;  and  if  I 
were  not,  such  things  are  interesting  only  to  lovers.  But  I 
know  a  shadow  swept  suddenly  across  the  sweetest  light  that 
for  Charlotte  had  ever  brightened  the  world.  The  window,  be¬ 
side  which  these  lovers  sat,  if  we  may  call  them  lovers,  over¬ 
looked  the  highway  for  half  a  mile  or  more  ;  and  as  they  sat 
there  it  chanced  that  a  funeral  procession  came  winding  through 
the  dust  and  under  the  windy  trees  far  down  the  hill.  It  was 
preceded  by  no  hearse  or  other  special  carriage  for  the  dead, 
for  in  country  places  the  coffin  is  usually  placed  in  an  open 
wagon,  and  beneath  a  sheet,  carried  to  the  grave-yard.  So, 
from  their  elevated  position,  they  could  see,  far  off,  the  white 
shape  in  the  bottom  of  the  wagon.  Mr.  Dinsmore’s  attentions 
became  suddenly  abstracted  from  the  lady  beside  him,  and  the 
painful  consciousness  of  bereavement,  from  which  he  had  almost 
escaped,  weighed  on  him  with  tenfold  violence.  “  Hush,  hush,” 
he  said,  in  subdued  and  reproachful  accents,  as  she  made  at¬ 
tempts  to  talk  of  something  besides  shrouds.  “  Florence,”  he 
continued,  burying  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  as  though  swept 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 


269 


by  a  sudden  passion  from  the  consciousness  of  a  living  pre¬ 
sence,  “  why  was  I  spared  when  you  were  taken,  and  why  am 

I  not  permitted  to  go  voluntarily” - he  abruptly  broke  off  the 

sentence,  and,  rising,  rushed  from  the  house.  Charlotte  arose, 
too,  her  heart  troubled  and  trembling,  and  followed  him  with 
her  eyes,  as  he  staggered  blindly  forward  to  obtain  a  nearer 
view  of  the  procession,  every  now  and  then  raising  himself  on 
tiptoe,  that  he  might  see  the  coffin  more  distinctly. 

In  the  suburbs  of  the  city,  and  adjoining  the  grounds  of  Cap¬ 
tain  Bailey,  lay  the  old  grave-yard  termed  the  Potter’s  Field, 
and  across  the  sloping  stubble  land,  toward  this  desolate  place, 
Charlotte  bent  her  steps,  and  seated  on  the  roots  of  a  blasted 
tree,  on  a  hill-side,  waited  for  the  procession.  Gloomy  enough 
was  the  scene,  not  relieved  by  one  human  figure,  as  perhaps 
she  had  hoped  to  find  it.  To  the  South  hung  clouds  of  smoke 
over  crowded  walls,  with  here  and  there  white  spires  shooting 
upward,  and  in  one  opening  among  the  withered  trees,  she 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Ohio,  and  over  all  and  through  all 
sounded  the  din  of  busy  multitudes,  in  the  opposite  direction 
were  scattered  farm-houses,  and  meadows,  and  orchards,  with 
sheep  grazing  and  cattle  pasturing,  and  blue  cheerful  columns 
of  smoke  drifted  and  lifted  on  the  wind.  And  just  at  her  feet, 
and  dividing  the  two  pictures,  lay  this  strip  of  desolated  and 
desecrated  ground,  the  Potter’s  Field.  It  was  inclosed  by  no 
fence,  and  troops  of  pigs  and  cows  eked  out  a  scanty  sustenance 
about  the  place.  One  of  these  starved  creatures,  having  one 
horn  dangling  loosely  about  her  ear — in  consequence  of  some 
recent  quarrel  about  the  scanty  grass  perhaps — drew  slowly 
toward  the  hollow  nearest  the  place  where  Charlotte  sat,  and 
drank  from  a  little  grave  which  seemed  to  have  been  recently 
opened.  The  soil  was  marshy — so  much  so  that  the  slightest 
pit  soon  filled  with  water.  The  higher  ground  was  thickly  fur¬ 
rowed  with  rows  of  graves,  and  two  or  three,  beside  this  open 
one,  had  been  made  in  the  very  bottom  of  the  hollow.  Nearer 
and  nearer  came  the  funeral  train.  It  consisted  of  but  few  per¬ 
sons — men,  and  women,  and  children — the  last  looking  fear¬ 
fully  and  wonderingly  about,  as  led  by  the  hands  of  their 
parents  they  trod  the  narrow  path  between  the  long  lines  of 


I 

270  OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 

mounds.  Forward  walked  a  strong  stalwart  middle-aged  man, 
bearing  in  his  arms  the  coffin — that  of  a  little  child  ;  and  Char¬ 
lotte  shuddered  to  think  of  the  cold  damp  bed  which  was  wait¬ 
ing  for  it.  There  seemed  to  be  no  clergyman  in  attendance  ;  and 
without  hymn  or  prayer,  the  body  that  had  slept  always  in  its 
mother’s  arms  till  now,  wras  laid  in  the  earth,  and  in  the  obscurest 
and  lonesomest  corner  of  the  lonesomest  of  all  burial  places,  left 
alone.  Closer  than  the  rest,  even  pressing  to  the  edge  of  the 
grave,  was  a  pale  woman,  whose  eyes  looked  down  more  ear¬ 
nestly  than  the  eyes  of  the  others ;  and  that  it  was,  and  not 
the  black  ribbon  crossed  plainly  about  the  straw  bonnet — 
which  indicated  the  mother.  Hard  by,  but  not  so  near  the 
grave,  stood  a  man  holding  in  his  arms  a  child  of  some  two 
years,  very  tightly,  as  though  the  grave  should  not  get  that ; 
and  once  he  put  his  hand  to  his  eyes  ;  but  he  turned  away  be¬ 
fore  the  woman,  and  as  he  did  so,  kissed  the  cheek  of  the  little 
child  in  his  arms — she  thought  only  of  the  dead. 

The  sun  sunk  lower  and  lower,  and  was  gone ;  the  windy 
evening  came  dimly  out  of  the  woods,  shaking  the  trees  and 
rustling  the  long  grass  ;  the  last  lengths  of  light  drew  them¬ 
selves  from  the  little  damp  heap,  and  presently  the  small  grey 
headstones  were  lost  from  view.  And,  scarcely  disturbing  the 
stillness,  the  funeral  people  returned  to  their  several  homes — 
for  the  way  was  dusty  and  they  moved  slowly — almost  as 
slowly  as  they  came.  There  were  no  songs  of  birds  in  the  twi¬ 
light — not  even  a  hum  of  insects ;  the  first  were  gone,  and  the 
last,  or  such  of  them  as  still  lived,  were  crept  under  fallen 
leaves,  and  were  quietly  drowsing  into  nothingness.  No  snakes 
slipt  noiselessly  along  the  dust-path,  hollowing  their  slow  ways. 
They  too  were  gone — some  dropping  into  the  frosty  cracks 
of  the  ground,  and  others,  pressed  flat,  lay  coiled  under  decay¬ 
ing  logs  and  loose  stones.  So,  at  such  a  time  and  in  such  a 
place,  the  poor  little  baby  was  left  alone,  and  the  parents  went 
to  their  darkened  cottage,  the  mother  to  try  to  smile  upon  the 
child  that  was  left,  while  her  eyes  are  tearful  and  she  sees  only 
the  vacant  cradle, — and  the  father  to  make  the  fire  warm  and 
cheerful,  and  essay  with  soft  words  to  win  the  heavy-hearted 
wife  from  their  common  sorrow.  They  are  poor,  and  have  no 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 


271 


time  to  sit  mourning,  and  as  the  mother  prepares  the  scanty 
meal,  the  father  will  deal  out  to  the  impatient  cows  hay  and 
corn,  more  liberally  than  his  garners  can  well  afford,  for  to-night 
he  feels  like  doing  good  to  everything. 

Something  in  this  way  ran  the  thoughts  of  Charlotte,  as 
slowly  and  sadly  she  retraced  her  steps,  trying  to  make  herself 
believe  she  would  have  felt  no  less  lonely  at  any  other  time  if 
she  had  witnessed  so  mournful  a  scene.  And  in  part  she 
deceived  herself:  not  quite,  however,  for  her  eyes  were  wan¬ 
dering  searchingly  from  side  to  side  of  the  path,  and  now  and 
then  wistfully  back,  though  she  could  scarcely  distinguish  the 
patches  of  fading  fennel  from  the  thick  mounds  of  clay.  Per¬ 
haps  she  fancied  Mr.  Sully  Dinsmore  still  lingered  among  the 
shadows  to  muse  of  the  dead. 

Nothing  like  justice  can  here  be  done  to  the  variously  accom¬ 
plished  Sully  Dinsmore.  Charlotte  requires  no  elaborate 
painting ;  a  young  and  pretty  country  girl — with  a  heart, 
except  in  its  credulity,  like  most  other  human  hearts,  yearning 
and  hopeful — as  yet  she  had  distilled  from  no  keen  disappoint¬ 
ment  a  bitter  wisdom.  Little  joys  and  sorrows  made  up  the 
past ;  her  present  seemed  portentous  of  great  events. 

“  Where  is  Kate  I”  she  asked  one  day,  in  the  hope  of  learn¬ 
ing  what  she  did  not  dare  to  ask ;  and  Sally  replied  in  a  way 
that  she  meant  to  be  kindly,  and  certainly  thought  to  be  wise, 
by  saying,  “  She  is  in  some  recess,  I  suppose,  comforting  poor 
Mr.  Dinsmore,  who  seems  to  distribute  his  attentions  most 
liberally.  It  was  only  this  morning,”  she  added,  “  that  against 
a  lament  for  the  dead  Florence,  he  patched  the  story  of  his  love 
for  me.” 

Charlotte  joined  in  the  laugh,  but  with  an  ill  grace,  and  still 
more  reluctantly  followed  when  Sally  led  the  way  toward  the 
absentees,  saying  in  a  whisper,  “  Let  us  reconnoitre — all  strata¬ 
gems  fair  in  war,  you  know.” 

But  whether  the  stratagem  was  fair  or  not,  it  failed  of  the 
success  which  Sally  had  expected,  for  they  no  sooner  came 
within  hearing  of  voices  than  Mr.  Dinsmore  was  heard  descant¬ 
ing  in  a  half  melancholy,  half  enthusiastic  tone,  of  the  superi¬ 
ority  of  all  western  products.  “  Why,  Captain  Bailey,”  said 


272 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


he,  speaking  more  earnestly  than  before,  “  I  would  not  live  east 
of  the  mountains  for  anything  I  can  think  of — not  for  hardly 
anything  in  the  world !”  Such  childish  simplicity  of  speech 
made  it  difficult  to  think  him  insincere  ;  and  Charlotte,  at  least 
did  not,  but  was  the  more  confirmed  in  her  previous  notions, 
that  he  was  a  weary,  broken-hearted  man,  sick  of  the  world 
and  pining  for  some  solitude,  “  with  one  sweet  spirit  for  his 
minister.” 

Whether  Sally’s  good  intentions  sprang  from  envy  and  jeal¬ 
ousy,  it  might  be  difficult  to  decide  ;  but  Charlotte  attributed 
only  these  feelings  to  her,  as  she  petulantly  turned  away  with 
the  exclamation — “  Pshaw !  Kate  has  left  him,  and  he  is  trying 
to  make  father  believe  the  moon  is  made  of  green  cheese  !” 

Prom  that  day  the  cousins  began  to  be  more  and  more 
apart;  the  slight  disposition  to  please  and  be  pleased,  which 
had  on  both  sides  been  struggling  for  an  existence,  died,  and 
did  not  revive  again. 

It  was  perhaps  a  week  after  this  little  scene,  and  in  the 
mean  time  Mr.  Dinsmore  had  been  no  unsuccessful  wooer  ;  in 
truth,  Charlotte  began  to  feel  a  regret  that  she  had  not  selected 
a  white  instead  of  a  red  dress  ;  all  the  world  looked  brighter 
to  her  than  it  had  ever  done  before,  dreary  as  the  season  was. 

The  distance  between  the  cousins  and  herself  widened  every 
day  ;  but  what  cared  she  for  this,  so  long  as  Mr.  Dinsmore 
said  they  were  envious,  selfish,  frivolous,  and  unable  to  appre¬ 
ciate  her.  I  cannot  tell  what  sweet  visions  came  to  her  heart ; 
but  whatever  they  were,  she  found  converse  with  them  pleas¬ 
anter  than  friends — pleasanter  than  the  most  honeyed  rhymes 
poet  ever  syllabled.  And  so  she  kept  much  alone,  busy  with 
dreams — only  dreams. 

V. 

It  was  one  of  the  mildest  and  loveliest  of  all  the  days  that 
make  our  western  autumns  so  beautiful.  The  meadow  sides, 
indeed,  were  brown  and  flowerless  ;  the  lush  weeds  of  summer 
lopped  down,  black  and  wilted,  along  the  white  dry  dust  of 
the  roadside  ;  the  yellow  mossy  hearts  of  the  fennel  were  faded 
dry  ;  the  long,  shriveled  iron-weeds  had  given  their  red  bushy 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 


273 


tops  for  a  thin  greyish  down,  and  the  trees  had  lost  their  sum¬ 
mer  garments ;  still,  the  day  was  lovely,  and  all  its  beauties 
had  commended  themselves  with  an  unwonted  degree  of  accu¬ 
racy  to  the  eyes  of  Charlotte — Mr.  Dinsmore  had  asked  her  to 
joiu  him  in  an  autumn  ramble  avid  search  fur  the  last  hardy 
flowers.  All  the  morning  she  was  singing  to  herself, 

“  Meet  me  by  moonlight  alone, 

And  then  I  will  tell  thee  a  tale.” 

It  had  been  stipulated  by  Mr.  Dinsmore,  “so  as  not  to  excite 
observation,”  he  said,  that  they  should  leave  the  house  sepa¬ 
rately,  and  meet  at  an  appointed  place,  secure  from  observa¬ 
tion.  Why  a  ramble  in  search  of  flowers  should  be  clandestine, 
the  young  lady  did  not  pause  to  inquire,  but  she  went  forth  at 
the  time  appointed,  with  a  cheek  bright  almost  as  the  calico 
she  wore. 

On  the  grassy  slope  of  a  hollow  that  ran  in  one  direction 
through  a  strip  of  partly  cleared  woodland,  and  in  the  other 
toward  an  old  orchard  of  low  heavy-topped  trees,  she  seated 
herself,  fronting  the  sun,  which  was  not  shining,  but  seemed 
only  a  soft  yellow  spot  in  the  thick  haze  that  covered  all  the 
sky.  A  child  might  have  looked  on  it,  for  scarcely  had  it 
more  brightness  than  the  moon.  The  air  was  soft  and  loving, 
as  though  the  autumn  was  wooing  back  the  summer.  The 
grass  was  sprouting  through  the  stubble,  and  only  the  clear 
blue  sky  was  wanting  to  make  the  time  spring-like,  and  a  bird 
or  two  to  sing  of  “  April  purposes.”  It  was  full  May-time  in 
the  heart  of  Charlotte,  and  for  a  time,  no  bird  could  sing  more 
gaily  than  she,  as  she  sat  arranging  and  disarranging  the  scar¬ 
let  buds  she  had  twined  among  her  hair ;  now  placing  them  on 
one  side,  now  on  the  other  :  now  stripping  ofl’  a  leaf  or  two, 
and  now  adding  a  bud  or  blades  of  grass. 

So  an  hour  was  wiled  away  ;  but  though  it  seemed  long, 
Charlotte  thought  perhaps  it  was  not  an  hour  after  all ;  it  could 
not  be,  or  surely  Mr.  Dinsmore  would  have  joined  her.  The 
day  was  very  still,  and  she  knew  the  time  seemed  longer  when 
there  were  no  noises.  And  yet  when  she  became  aware  of 
sounds,  for  a  cider-mill  was  creaking  and  grating  in  the  edge 

12* 


274 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


of  the  orchard,  they  seemed  only  to  make  the  hours  more  long 
and  lonesome. 

Round  and  round  moved  the  horse,  but  she  could  not  hear 
the  crushing  and  grinding  of  the  apples — only  the  creaking  of 
the  mill.  Two  or  three  little  boys  were  there,  whistling  and 
hopping  about — now  riding  the  horse,  and  now  bending  over 
the  tub  and  imbibing  cider  with  a  straw.  An  old  man  was 
moving  briskly  among  bundles  and  barrels,  more  from  a  habit 
of  industry,  it  seemed,  than  because  there  was  anything  to  do. 
But,  try  as  she  would,  Charlotte  could  not  interest  herself  in 
their  movements.  An  uneasy  sensation  oppressed  her — she 
could  not  deceive  herself  any  longer — it  was  time,  and  long 
past  the  time  appointed.  At  first  she  looked  back  on  the  way 
she  had  come,  long  and  earnestly ;  then  she  arose  and  walked 
backward  and  forward  in  the  path,  with  a  quick  step  at  first, 
then  more  irresolutely  and  slowly.  The  yellow  spot  in  the 
clouds  had  sunken  very  low  and  was  widening  and  deepening 
into  orange,  wrhen  she  resumed  the  old  seat,  folded  her  hands 
listlessly  in  her  lap,  and  looked  toward  the  cider-mill.  The 
creaking  was  still,  the  horses  harnessed,  and  barrels,  and  bun¬ 
dles  of  straw,  and  boys,  all  in  the  wagon.  The  busy  farmer 
was  making  his  last  round,  to  be  sure  that  nothing  was  amiss, 
and  this  done  he  climbed  before  the  barrels  and  bundles  and 
boys,  cracked  his  whip,  and  drove  away  toward  the  orange 
light  in  the  clouds.  Mr.  Dinsmore  was  not  coming — of  that 
she  was  confident,  and  anger,  mortification,  and  disappoint¬ 
ment,  all  mingled  in  her  bosom,  producing  a  degree  of  misery 
she  had  never  before  experienced. 

Not  till  night  had  spread  one  dull  leaden  color  all  over  the 
sky,  did  she  turn  her  steps  homeward,  in  her  thoughts  bitterly 
revolving  all  Mr.  Dinsmore  had  said,  and  the  much  more  he 
had  suggested.  And,  as  she  thus  walked,  a  warm  bright  light 
dried  up  the  tears,  and  she  quickened  her  step — she  had  fallen 
back  on  that  last  weakness — some  unforeseen,  perhaps  terrible 
event,  had  detained  him,  and  all  the  reproaches  she  had  framed 
were  turned  upon  herself;  she  had  harshly  blamed  him,  when 
it  was  possible,  even  probable,  that  he  could  not  come.  The 
world  was  full  of  accidents,  dangers,  and  deaths — some  of  these 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 


275 


might  have  overtaken  him,  and  he  perhaps  had  been  watching 
as  anxiously  for  her  as  she  for  him.  At  this  thought  she  quick¬ 
ened  her  steps,  and  was  soon  at  the  house.  The  parlor  was 
but  dimly  lighted,  and,  with  a  trembling  and  anxious  heart,  she 
entered,  and  recognizing  Mr.  Dinsmore  in  one  of  the  recesses 
of  the  windows,  she  obeyed  the  first  impulse,  hurried  toward 
him,  and  parting  the  heavy  and  obscuring  draperies,  said,  in 
an  earnest  whisper,  “  Why  did  you  not  come  V 

“Come — where?”  he  replied,  indolently;  and  added,  in  a 
moment,  “  Ay,  yes,  really,  I  forgot  it.” 

A  half  sigh  reached  her,  and  turning,  she  became  aware  that 
a  young  and  pretty  lady  occupied  the  corner  of  the  window 
opposite.  No  further  explanation  was  needed. 

With  feelings  never  known  before,  pent  in  her  heart,  Char¬ 
lotte  sought  the  chamber  in  which  she  was  used  to  sleep — the 
lamp  was  faintly  burning,  and  the  bright  carpet  and  the  snowy 
counterpane  and  curtains,  and  low  cushioned  seats,  looked  very 
comfortable;  and  as  Charlotte  contrasted  all  with  the  homely 
garret  in  which  she  had  slept  at  home,  the  contrast  made  it 
luxury. 

In  her  heart,  she  wished  she  had  never  slept  any  where  else 
but  under  the  naked  rafters  of  her  father’s  house.  “  I  should 
have  known  better  than  to  come,”  she  thought;  “  it  is  no  wonder 
they  think  the  woods  the  best  place  for  me.”  Now,  no  one 
had  said  this,  but  she  attributed  it  and  many  such  thoughts  to 
her  rich  friends,  as  she  called  them,  and  then  set  herself  as 
resentfully  against  them  as  though  they  had  said  they  despised 
her. 

Her  eyes  turned  toward  the  night ;  she  was  sitting  very  still, 
with  all  bitter  and  resentful  and  sorrowful  feelings  running 
through  her  heart,  when  a  soft  tap  on  the  door  summoned  her 
to  answer.  With  a  haughty  step  and  repellant  manner  she 
went  forward  ;  and  when,  opening  the  door,  she  saw  before 
her  the  pleasant-faced  little  lady  she  had  seen  in  the  window, 
below,  she  said,  very  coldly,  “You  have  mistaken  the  apart¬ 
ment,  I  think,”  and  was  turning  away,  when  the  intruder 
eagerly  but  artlessly  caught  up  both  her  hands,  saying,  in  a 
tone  of  mingled  sweetness  and  heartiness,  “  No,  I  am  not  mis- 


2*76 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


taken ;  I  know  you,  if  you  do  not  know  me — I  could  not  wait 
for  a  formal  introduction,  but  commissioned  myself  to  bring 
you  down  to  tea.  My  name,”  she  added,  “  is  Louise — Louise 
Herbert.” 

Charlotte  bowed  stiffly,  and  saying,  “  You  are  very  obliging, 
but  I  do  n’t  want  any  tea,”  closed  the  door  abruptly,  and 
resumed  her  old  seat,  looking  out  into  the  night  as  before. 

“  I  suppose  it  was  mere  curiosity  that  brought  her  here,” 
she  said,  by  way  of  justifying  her  rudeness;  “of  course,  she 
could  feel  no  interest  in  me.”  And  further,  she  even  tried  to 
approve  of  herself  by  saying  she  always  hated  pretence,  and 
for  a  fine  lady  like  Miss  Herbert,  who  had  evidently  been 
accustomed  to  all  the  refinements  of  wealth,  to  affect  any  liking 
for  a  poor  ignorant  country  girl,  as  she  chose  to  call  herself, 
was  absurd.  In  truth,  she  was  glad  she  had  shown  independ¬ 
ence  at  least,  and  let  the  proud  creature  know  she  would  not 
cringe  because  of  her  silk  dress,  or  white  hands,  or  pretty  face. 
She  did  n’t  want  anything  of  her — she  could  live  without  her, 
and  she  would.  And  rising  and  pacing  the  room,  she  made 
what  she  thought  a  very  wise  and  dignified  resolve.  When 
they  were  all  asleep  she  would  tie  in  a  bundle  what  few  things 
she  had,  and  walk  home ;  she  would  not  ask  her  uncle  to  take 
her — she  would  not  tell  him  she  was  going — he  might  find  it 
out  the  best  way  he  could.  This  decision  made,  she  undressed 
and  went  to  bed,  as  usual,  and  tried  to  compose  herself  to 
sleep  by  thinking  that  she  was  about  as  ugly  and  ill-bred,  and 
unfortunate  in  every  way,  as  she  could  be ;  that  everybody 
disliked  and  despised  her,  and  that  all  who  were  connected  with 
her  were  ashamed  of  her.  Nor  was  this  any  wonder — she  was 
ashamed  of  herself.  There  was  one  thing  she  could  do,  never¬ 
theless,  and  that  she  would  do — go  back  and  remain  where  she 
belonged.  Thus  she  lay  tossing  and  tumbling,  and  frightening 
the  drowsy  god  quite  from  the  neighborhood  of  her  pillow, 
when  Kate  entered,  accompanied  by  the  agreeable  looking  little 
woman,  who,  being  introduced,  begged  in  a  jocular  way,  that 
she  would  afford  her  sleeping-room  for  only  one  night.  “  I 
could  not,”  she  added  very  sweetly,  “  give  my  friends  the 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 


277 


trouble  of  making  an  extra  bed,  if  you  would  allow  me  to 
share  yours.” 

Charlotte  answered,  coldly  and  concisely,  that  she  was  ready 
to  do  anything  to  oblige,  and  placing  herself  close  against  the 
wall,  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow,  and  lay  stiff  and  straight 
and  still.  But  Miss  Herbert,  singularly  oblivious  of  the  young 
woman’s  uncivil  behavior,  prepared  for  sleep, 

“  And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness.” 

“  How  cold  you  are,”  she  said,  creeping  close  to  her  com¬ 
panion,  and  putting  her  arm  about  her.  Charlotte  said  nothing, 
and  gave  a  hitch,  which  she  meant  to  be  from,  but,  somehow, 
it  was  toward  the  little  woman.  “  Oh,  you  are  quite  in  a 
chill,”  she  added,  giving  her  an  embrace,  and  in  a  moment  she 
had  hopped  from  the  bed,  and  in  her  clean,  white,  night  dress, 
was  fluttering  out  of  the  room. 

“  I  never  had  such  a  night-gown,”  thought  Charlotte,  “  with 
its  ruflles  and  lace  trimming — I  never  had  any  at  all,”  and  she 
resumed  her  old  position,  which,  however,  she  had  scarcely 
gained,  when  the  guest  came  fluttering  back,  and  folding  off  the 
counterpane,  wrapt,  as  though  she  were  a  baby,  her  own  nicely 
warmed  woollen  petticoat  about  her  feet,  and  having  tucked 
the  clothing  down,  slipt  under  it  and  nestled  Charlotte  in  her 
arms,  as  before,  saying,  “There,  is  n’t  that  better?” 

“  Yes — thank  you,”  and  her  voice  trembled,  as  she  yielded 
to  this  determined  kindness. 

“  Another  night  we  must  have  an  additional  blanket,”  said 
the  lady;  “that  is,  if  I  succeed  in  keeping  you  from  freezing 
to-night,”  and  pressing  the  chilly  hands  of  Charlotte  close  in 
her  bosom,  she  fell  asleep.  And  Charlotte,  thinking  she  would 
be  at  home  the  next  night,  fell  asleep  too,  and  woke  not  till 
along  the  counterpane  ran  the  shadows  of  the  red  clouds  of 
morning. 

©  i 

But  I  am  lingering,  and  must  hasten  to  say,  that  Louise 
Herbert  was  one  of  the  most  lovable,  generous,  and  excellent 
of  women ;  that  she  had  been  accustomed  to  affluence  was 
true,  and  that  she  could  not  know  the  feelings  of  Charlotte, 
who  had  been  born  and  bred  in  comparative  poverty,  was  not 


278 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


her  fault ;  from  her  position  in  life,  she  had  naturally  fallen 
into  certain  agreeing  habits  and  ways  of  thinking,  but  her  soul 
was  large,  her  heart  warm,  and  her  apprehensions  quick;  and 
when  she  saw  Charlotte,  and  heard  the  trembling  inquiry,  and 
the  answer  of  indifference,  she  read  the  little  history,  which  to 
the  young  girl  was  so  much,  and  appreciating,  so  far  as  she 
might,  her  sorrows,  determined  to  win  her  love;  for  at  once 
her  heart  went  out  toward  her — for  she  was  unsuspicious  and 
unhesitating,  always  ready  to  find  something  good  in  every  one. 

Even  Charlotte  found  it  impossible  not  to  love  her.  She 
did  n’t  know  why,  but  she  could  get  on  a  stool  at  her  feet,  lay 
her  head  on  her  lap,  and  forget  that  Louise  was  not  as  poor 
and  humble  as  herself;  or,  if  she  remembered  it,  the  silks  and 
plumes  and  jewelry  worn  by  her,  did  n’t  make  her  envious  or 
jealous- -it  gave  her  pleasure  to  see  Louise  look  pretty. 

Mr.  Dinsmore,  after  some  vain  attempts  to  coquette  and 
flirt  with  Miss  Herbert,  who  had  too  much  tact,  or  was  too 
indifferent  to  him,  to  pay  much  regard  to  his  overtures, 
departed  rather  abruptly,  merely  sending  his  adieus  to  Char¬ 
lotte,  who  was  engaged  in  the  kitchen  at  the  time,  and  who 
had  been  in  the  shade  since  the  coming  of  Miss  Herbert. 

And  after  a  month  of  eating  and  sleeping,  talking  and  laugh¬ 
ing,  baking  and  making  and  mending,  Louise  was  joined  by 
her  party,  who  had  left  her  with  her  friends,  the  Baileys,  while 
they  continued  a  ruralizing  tour  through  the  West,  and  Char¬ 
lotte’s  heart  grew  desolate  at  the  thought  of  separation  from 
her.  But  such  a  misfortune  was  not  yet  to  be;  for  before 
the  departure  of  the  young  lady,  she  persuaded  the  parents  of 
'Charlotte  (who  could  not  help  liking,  though  they  regarded  her 
very  much  as  they  would  a  being  from  another  sphere)  to 
allow  their  daughter  to  accompany  her  home. 

With  a  heart  full  of  curious  joy,  but  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
Charlotte  took  leave  of  the  old  home  that  she  had  so  despised, 
and  yet  loved  so  well. 


CHARLOTTE  RYAN. 


279 


VI. 

A  year  or  two  afterwards,  changes  and  chances  brought  me 
for  a  moment  within  the  circle  in  which  she  moved  as  the 
admired  star.  The  rooms  were  brilliant  with  lights  and  flow¬ 
ers,  and  gaiety  and  beauty,  and  intellect ;  and  the  lately  shrink¬ 
ing  country  girl  was  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes — the  most  envied, 
the  most  dreaded,  the  most  admired,  the  most  loved. 

When  my  attention  was  drawn  first  toward  her,  there  were 
some  voices  that  had  sounded  at  least  through  the  length  and 
breadth  of  their  own  country,  softened  to  the  most  dulcet  of 
tones,  for  her  sake  ;  and  she  seemed  to  listen  indifferently,  as 
though  her  thoughts  were  otherwhere. 

I  naturally  recalled  the  humble  life  she  had  led — my  walk 
to  her  house  along  the  autumn  woods — the  letter  which  had 
been  the  key  opening  a  new  life  to  her — and  while  I  was  thus 
musing,  I  heard  a  voice  which  seemed  not  altogether  unfamiliar 
— so  low,  and  soft,  and  oily, — “  Really,  Miss  Herbert,  I  was 
never  so  proud  as  to-night — that  you  should  have  remembered 
me  on  such  an  occasion  as  this !  I  cannot  express  the  honor  I 
feel,  the  obligations  you  have  placed  me  under.” 

And  then,  as  if  constrained  to  throw  aside  all  formality,  and 
express  himself  with  simple  sincerity,  he  continued — “Why, 
how  in  the  world  did  you  get  all  these  great  folks  together  !  I 
don’t  believe  there  is  a  house  in  the  United  States,  except 
yours,  that  ever  held  at  once  so  many  celebrities.” 

Before  my  eye  fell  on  him,  I  recognized  Mr.  Dinsmore,  and 
observed  him  with  increasing  interest  as  he  made  his  way  to 
Miss  Ryan,  who  appeared  not  to  see  him,  till  having  pushed 
and  elbowed  his  way,  he  addressed  her  with  the  familiarity  of 
an  old  and  intimate  friend,  and  as  though  he  were  not  only 
delighted  himself,  but  felt  assured  that  she  must  be  much  more 
so.  But  she  hesitated — looked  at  him  inquiringly — and  seemed 
to  say  by  her  manner,  as  plainly  as  possible,  “  What  impudent 
fellow  are  you — and  what  do  you  want ?” 

“  Surely,  you  remember  meeting  with  me,”  the  gentleman 
said,  a  little  discomfited,  but  in  his  most  insinuating  tone. 

“  When — where1?”  she  asked,  as  if  she  would  remember  him 
if  she  could. 


280 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“  Don’t  you  remember,”  he  said,  “  a  month  with  Sulley 
Dinsmore  at  Captain  Bailey’s?” 

“Ah,  yes,”  she  replied,  quoting  his  own  words  on  a  former 
occasion  ;  “  Really,  1  had  forgotten  it.” 

He  shrunk  a  head  and  shoulders  in  stature,  and  slipt  aside 
like  a  detected  dog ;  and  after  one  or  two  ineffectual  attempts 
to  rally,  took  leave  in  modest  and  becoming  silence. 

An  hour  afterward  we  sat  alone — Charlotte  and  I — in  the 
dim  corner  of  a  withdrawing  room;  and  as  I  was  congratulating 
her  on  her  new  position,  especially  on  the  beauty  of  her  appear¬ 
ance  that  night,  she  buried  her  face  in  my  lap,  and  burst  into 
tears  ;  and  when  I  tried  to  soothe  her,  but  wept  the  more.  At 
length,  lifting  herself  up,  and  drying  her  eyes,  she  said  :  “  What 
would  mother  think,  if  she  saw  me  here,  and  thus  ?” — And  she 
scanned  her  gay  dress,  as  though  it  were  something  neither 
right  nor  proper  for  her  to  wear.  “And  dear  little  Willie  and 
sturdy  Jonathan,”  she  continued:  “I  suppose  they  sleep  in 
their  little  narrow  bed  under  the  rafters  yet,  and  I — I — would 
I  not  feel  more  shame  than  joy  if  they  were  to  come  in  here 
to-night !  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  staid  at  home  and  helped  mother 
spin,  and  read  the  sermon  to  father  when  the  weekly  paper 
came.  His  hair  is  getting  white,  isn’t  it?”  she  asked,  pulling 
the  flowers  out  of  her  own,  and  throwing  them  on  the  ground. 

My  wish  was  fulfilled — Charlotte  had  attained  the  position 
I  had  thought  her  so  fitted  to  adorn  ;  but  was  she  happier  ? 
In  the  little  gain  was  there  not  much  loss — the  fresh  young 
feeling,  the  capacity  to  enjoy,  the  hope,  the  heart,  which,  once 
gone,  never  come  back. 

I  cannot  trace  her  biography  all  out :  since  that  night 
of  triumph  and  defeat,  our  paths  have  never  crossed  each 
other. 


THE  SUICIDE. 


281 


THE  SUICIDE. 

What  a  great  thing  it  is  to  live  a  true  life — true  to  ourselves, 
true  to  God  !  And  I  am  not  sure  hut  that  the  one  truth  always 
includes  the  other.  Here  and  there,  treacling  along  the  dusty  by¬ 
paths  and  climbing  over  the  barren  heaths  of  life,  we  see, 
elevating  our  faith  in  humanity,  and  throwing  about  our  own 
weak  resolves  the  excellent  beauty  of  a  good  example,  men 
and  women  whose  lives  are  a  continual  praise  and  prayer. 

As  I  look  back  on  the  way  I  have  come,  I  see  along  the  dark¬ 
ness  many  faces  shining  with  the  glory  and  beauty  which  is 
away  above  and  beyond  this  world.  Oh,  Thou,  whose  best  name 
is  Love,  forgive  me,  that  I  have  seen,  and  yet  been  so  little 
instructed  ;  that  l  have  heard,  and  yet  trodden  so  falteringly ! 

A  little  wav  from  the  centre  of  Clovernook  stands  a  lone- 

• / 

some  old  house,  supposed  to  be  haunted.  I  know  not  as  to 
that ;  but  if  unquiet  spirits  are  ever  permitted,  as  some  re¬ 
spite  of  their  ill,  to  slip  from  the  shroud,  or  the  deeper  dark¬ 
ness  that  is  below  the  shroud,  1  remember  no  place  which 
would  seem  a  more  fitting  habitation  for  them.  Spiders  have 
made  nests  in  the  bushes,  aud  nettles  have  covered  up  the 
grass  ;  the  rose-vines  are  half  living  and  half  dead,  half  clinging 
to  the  moss  on  the  wall,  and  half  choked  together  on  the  ground  ; 
the  wind,  blowing  as  it  listelb,  has  from  time  to  time  lopped 
away  the  branches  of  the  trees,  aud,  with  no  hand  to  remove 
them,  they  remain  dangling  earthward  like  skeletons  :  among 
their  dry  forks  are  the  nests  of  birds  that  would  not  build  near 
any  other  house. 

And  vet  the  house  is  not  without  an  inhabitant ;  sometimes 
through  the  cracked  panes  you  may  see  the  sweet  face  of  a 
little  child,  looking  like  a  flower  leaning  from  some  cranny  to¬ 
ward  the  light ;  for  whole  hours  together  you  may  see  it,  the 


282 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


pale  cheeks,  and  the  melancholy  eyes,  and  the  hair,  black  as 
night,  giving  to  the  child’s  face  a  thoughtful  maturity  of  ex¬ 
pression  quite  beyond  her  years.  You  would  feel,  I  think,  that 
a  strange  if  not  a  fearful  history  was  involved  in  that  little 
life  ;  it  seems  as  if  you  saw  away  down  the  depths  of  the  stead¬ 
fast  eyes  full  fountains  of  tears.  The  dress  of  the  little  one  is 
simple,  even  rustic,  and  sometimes  sadly  unsuited  to  the  season, 
betraying  that  the  careful  hands  of  the  mother  have  been  folded 
far  away  from  its  wants. 

Oftenest  when  the  twilight  falls  the  child  is  at  the  window, 
watching  for  the  bats,  as  they  turn  blindly  hither  and  thither, 
or  cling  silently  to  the  decaying  trunks  of  giant  trees  ;  and  at 
that  hour  sometimes,  but  never  at  any  other,  the  hand  of  an 
old  man  rests  on  the  locks  of  the  orphan,  and  the  head  bows 
down  as  beneath  a  weight ;  the  prattle  which  it  has  been  making 
to  itself  is  still,  and  the  light  of  laughter  grows  dim  in  the 
drooped  eyes  turning  from  the  eyes  which  look  down  upon  it. 

It  is  a  very  sad  thing  to  see  them  thus  together — the  baby 
brow  as  if  shrinking  consciously  from  the  crown  of  gray  hairs. 
1  know  not  how  it  was,  but  some  invisible  and  living  thing 
seemed  standing  between  them.  Often,  as  I  passed  the  place, 
I  have  lingered  and  dreamed,  till  of  the  whole  scene  my  shut 
eyes  make  pictures.  I  remember  when  the  moonlight  threw 
less  sombre  shadows  on  the  wall ;  1  remember  when  the  grass 
was  cut  smoothly  from  the  edges  of  the  wralks,  overgrowm  now 
till  but  a  narrow  and  irregular  path  is  left ;  and  I  remember 
when  among  the  flowrers  there  was  one  fairer  than  they. 

Poor  Isabel  !  the  grass  about  her  grave  is  not  trodden  down 
by  feet  that  cannot  stay  away  ;  and  the  low  headstone  is  name¬ 
less,  but  beside  it  the  blue  thistle  blooms  and  dies,  summer 
after  summer  ;  for  nature,  at  least,  is  never  neglectful,  and 
never  partial.  The  old  man  I  have  written  of  is  her  father ; 
and  small  vender  it  is  that  he  is  weary  and  broken-hearted,  for 
he  can  only  say, 

Two  comforts  yet  are  mine  to  keep— 

Betwixt  her  and  her  faithless  lover 
Bright  grass  will  spread  a  flowery  cover, 

And  Isabel  is  well  asleep. 


THE  SUICIDE. 


283 


Poor  comfort  enough  for  a  desolate  old  man  to  keep  about  his 
heart. 

The  smile  of  the  little  child  who  sits  at  his  hearth  cannot 
shine  into  his  heart ;  or  if  it  does,  it  will  never  thaw  the  chill 
cast  there  by  the  death  of  the  mother — her  loss  by  her  more 
than  death. 

It  is  only  the  old  story. 

On  the  mossy  steps  that  come  dowrn  among  the  lilacs  she 
used  to  sit,  years  ago,  her  pious  father  beside  her,  and  as  the 
gray  ashes  gathered  on  the  red  embers  of  the  sunset,  she 

“  Lent  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 
The  music  of  her  voice.” 

Then  there  came  a  time  when  another  sat  between  the  father 
and  daughter  ;  then  she  and  the  other,  not  the  father,  sat  alone 
— sometimes  late  into  the  unfriendly  night.  And  all  this  while 
the  roses  were  not  so  bright  as  the  cheek  of  Isabel,  nor  the 
birds  so  gay  as  her  songs.  Ah  me,  that  the  sparkle  on  the  sur¬ 
face  of  the  fountain  should  ever  hide  the  coil  of  the  serpent  at 
the  bottom  ! 

The  summer  waned  and  faded,  and  the  chill  rains  broke  up 
the  flowers  ;  the  insects  crept  under  the  falling  leaves,  and  the 
cattle  stood  all  day  near  the  stalls  ;  and  Isabel,  as  the  night 
came  down,  lingered  restless  and  anxious  at  the  window,  her 
eyes  aching  as  they  gazed  into  vacancy.  So  the  days  came  and 
went,  and  the  nights,  darker,  and  darker,  and  darker,  settled 
down  over  the  world.  The  maple  forest  along  the  hill  was  like 
a  ridge  of  gold  against  the  bottom  of  the  sky,  and  the  oaks 
came  out  of  the  sharp  frosts  as  if  dipped  in  blood,  and  plenty 
and  glory  contended  in  the  orchards  and  the  cornfields  ;  but 
Isabel  did  not  sing  as  she  had  sung  in  other  days.  All  her 
household  tasks  were  done  as  before,  even  more  promptly  and 
perfectly,  perhaps ;  but  her  step  had  lost  its  elasticity,  and  as 
you  looked  on  her  you  thought  that  she  also  should  sing — 

“  My  head  is  like  to  rend,  Willie, 

My  heart  is  like  to  break — 

I ’m  wearing  off  my  feet,  Willie, 

I  ’rn  dying  for  your  sake.” 


284 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


And  here  comes  a  dark  chapter  that  I  cannot  write.  Enough 
that  when  the  red  fire-light  shone  through  snow  that  drifted  on 
the  pane,  the  house  was  very  still — the  step  and  voice  and 
smile  and  blithe  laugh  of  Isabel  were  gone,  all  and  forever. 

The  grief  that  was  in  the  father’s  heart  spoke  not  in  words 
or  sighs,  but  it  consumed  his  spirit  and  whitened  his  hair.  It 
seemed  as  if  remorse  were  gnawing  his  passage  to  the  grave; 
for  he  had  dealt  hardlv  and  barshlv  with  his  child  ;  and  when 
his  dim  eyes  lost  trace  of  her  wanderings,  visions  of  her  shaped 
themselves  very  darkly  ;  but  he  only  listened  to  the  winds,  and 
turned  to  the  darkness  for  comfort,  and  not  to  the  eyes  or  the 
voice  of  another. 

The  world  was  the  same,  but  the  stars  were  swept  out  of 
heaven.  A V i l d  blew  the  winds  of  the  March  morning,  thawing 
paths  among  the  snow  along  the  southern  slopes,  and  nurturing 
and  wooing  out  of  gloom  the  hardiest  flowers  ;  the  red-bird  and 
the  black-bird  whistled  among  the  vet  bave  boughs,  for  the  clouds 
that  rain  down  beautv  had  not  vet  traveled  along  the  meadows: 
Winter  was  lingering  in  the  lap  of  Spring.  And  the  old  home¬ 
stead  looked  sad.  The  little  brown-bird  that  had  built  in  the 
lilac  bush,  summer  after  summer,  for  successive  years,  twittered 
and  chirped  in  melancholy  sort  about  the  old  nest  for  a  few 
days,  now  flitting  undetermioedly  hither  and  thither,  picking 
fiue  moss  and  shreds, and  now  dropping  them  again,  and  chanting 
a  note  of  sorrow  ill-suited  to  the  time  and  the  work.  With 
the  fb’st  rain  the  old  nest  was  beaten  down  quite  past  repairing, 
and  after  an  unusually  mournful  crying,  the  beautiful  favorite 
disappeared.  The  very  smoke  of  the  chimney  seemed  to  come 
up  from  a  hearth  where  there  was  no  cheerfulness — not  drifting 
ofl‘  in  graceful  wreaths  of  blue,  but  black  and  heavy,  hanging 
on  the  hill-sides  or  settling  to  the  ground.  There  was  no  step 
about  the  flower-beds  or  in  the  garden,  and  no  linen  bleaching 
while  on  the  first  grass. 

The  sunshine  grows  warmer,  day  by  day,  but  the  windows 
of  Isabel’s  chamber  are  fast  shut,  the  fringe  of  the  counterpane 
is  heavy  with  dust,  and  the  pillow  has  been  unprest  for  a  long 
while.  Poor  Isabel ! 

Sometimes  the  door  opens,  stealthily,  as  it  were,  and  a  gray- 


THE  SUICIDE. 


285 


headed  man  comes  out,  and  sits  down  in  the  sun,  or  looks 
earnestly  about,  as  though  for  something  or  for  some  one  he 
docs  not  see.  If  he  walks  by  the  wheat-fields,  the  blast  of  the 
mildew  is  all  the  same  as  their  beauty,  for  the  light  in  his 
old  eyes  is  dim;  aud  his  step  falls  heavy,  as  though  it  were  near 
the  last. 

u  Lingering  he  raised  his  latch  at  eve, 

Though  tired  in  heart  and  limb; 

He  loved  no  other  place,  and  yet 
Home  was  no  home  to  him.” 

In  all  the  world  there  is  no  soft  voice  to  comfort  him  as  he 
goes  chilled  and  wearied  down  into  the  grave.  Why  should 
the  waving  harvest  make  him  glad,  or  the  spring  rouse  his  pulses 
to  hope1?  All  the  beauty  of  this  world,  which  God  so  pro¬ 
nounced  good,  shines  and  blossoms  in  vain  for  that  heart  from 
which  the  flowers  of  love  have  been  beaten  down  till  they  have 
no  longer  any  life. 

I  said  it  was  a  March  morning,  that  the  winds  were  wild, 
and  that  Isabel  was  gone — wheiefore  and  whither  there  were 
busy  and  reproachful  tongues  enough  to  lei  I.  She  has  heard 
her  father  say,  with  less  of  sorrow  than  of  indignant  passion, 
“I  am  childless  in  mv  old  age.  for  thou  avt  but  as  a  thorn  in 
my  flesh !”  And  from  all  kindness  and  all  pity,  through  the 
moonless  midnight,  her  steps  have  gone  drearily  and  wearily. 
And  each  is  alone — father  and  child  ;  and  only  the  light  of 
eternity  can  dry  up  the  great  sea  that  has  come  in  between 
them. 

Midwav  between  the  woodland  and  his  house,  walked  the 
father,  musing  of  bis  daughter,  and  listening  to  the  stirring  of 
the  black-thorn  boughs  a  little  distance  away — listening  to  their 
stirring,  but  not  once  turning  his  eyes  from  the  ground,  else  he 
had  seen  the  pale  face  and  haggard  form  of  a  woman,  crouching 
from  the  sharp  wind  ;  not  to  shelter  herself — there  is  no  chill, 
not  even  the  terriblest  of  all.  that  she  would  shrink  from  :  but 
close  in  her  bosom,  and  playing  with  the  tangled  hair  that  falls 
down  from  her  forehead,  nestles  a  baby  that  has  never  felt  a 
March  wind  till  now.  “  You,  poor  darling,  at  least,  are  inno¬ 
cent,”  she  says  ;  “  surely  he  will  love  you  and  keep  you.”  And 


2S6 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


her  arms  reach  forward,  and  her  voice  says,  “  Father  !”  Brightly 
over  the  world  breaks  the  sunshine,  and  her  sin  seems  darker 
than  it  did  among  clouds  ;  her  arms  fall  helpless,  and  her  lips 
are  hushed.  So,  under  the  boughs  of  the  black-thorn,  she 
waits  for  the  evening. 

Toward  sunset  the  air  became  more  bitterly  cold,  and  the 
child  moaned  often,  and  looked  up  to  its  mother  with  a  hungry 
and  appealing  expression.  And  stilling  the  tumult  of  its  sor¬ 
row  and  pain  with  a  voice  low  and  earnest,  but  scarcely  fond, 
the  woman  waited  and  watched  till  the  forked  boughs  of  the 
woodland  seemed  like  dead  brands  among  the  fires  of  the 
descending  night ;  and  the  winds  softened  themselves,  and 
came  down  and  mixed  with  her  lullaby ;  and  so  the  baby  fell 
asleep — for  the  last  time  in  a  mother’s  arms. 

There  seemed  no  twilight,  but  the  day  was  gone  at  once,  and 
from  under  the  muffling  wings  of  night  peered  the  stars,  and 
the  moon,  chilly  and  white,  climbed  among  them,  dropping  her 
icy  splendors  toward  the  earth.  From  the  gable  of  the  home¬ 
stead  fell  the  dark-pointed  shadow,  and  the  hearth-light  glim¬ 
mered  through  the  window,  soft  and  warm. 

Folding  close  the  sleeping  child,  toward  the  dark  shadow  and 
the  warm  light  the  forlorn  young  mother  bent  her  steps,  and 
struck  presently  in  a  deep  path,  or  what  had  once  been  one — 
for  the  grass  had  grown  over  its  edges  till  it  seemed  little  more 
than  a  crack  in  the  sod — when,  pausing,  she  looked  backward 
and  forward — forward  toward  the  homestead,  backward  to  the 
woods,  dismal  as  they  should  be  if  planted  but  to  screen  the 
gates  of  that  black  world  in  which  there  is  no  hope.  In  other 
days  the  path,  so  narrow  now,  had  been  wide  enough  for  two. 
After  a  little  pause,  she  goes  on  again,  slowly,  and  stooping 
often  to  kiss  the  forehead  of  the  little  one  sleeping  in  her  arms. 

At  last  she  is  in  the  shadow  of  the  gable,  and  just  before 
her  glimmers  the  light  of  the  curtainless  window.  The  night 
lies  cold  and  bleak  around  her;  and  stealthily  as  if  she  were  a 
murderess,  she  approaches,  and  peers,  hesitating,  through  the 
pane. 

All  the  old  familiar  things  meet  her  eye :  so  still  she  is,  so 
hushed  the  very  beating  of  her  heart,  that  she  hears  the  chirp 


THE  SUICIDE. 


287 


of  the  cricket  answer  the  ticking  of  the  clock ;  the  embers 
make  red  shadows  on  the  wall,  and  she  sees  the  desolate  father, 
sitting  sad  and  stern.  Suddenly  across  his  face  there  passes  a 
softer  expression,  and  her  heart  throbs  quick.  His  eyes  turn 
toward  a  picture  of  herself  that  hangs  opposite  the  window, 
and  her  eyes  follow  his.  “  He  thinks  of  me  piteously,  at 
least,”  she  says.  “  I  will  go  in,  and  say  I  have  sinned  against 
Heaven  and  in  his  sight.”  Closer  and  closer,  obeying  the  wild 
sad  impulse,  she  presses  her  face  to  the  glass,  when,  all  at 
once,  her  reviving  energies  are  paralyzed,  and  her  fluttering 
hopes  struck  dead.  A  steady  hand  reverses  the  fair,  girlish  face 
of  the  picture,  toward  the  wall ;  then  the  man  turns,  and  for  a 
moment  the  eyes  of  the  two  meet ;  and  eagerly,  yearningly,  the 
child  bends  forward  ;  but  the  father  shrinks  away.  It  was  but 
for  a  moment,  yet  that  was  all  too  much.  The  overstrung 
nerves  gave  way  ;  and,  laying  the  baby  at  her  feet,  with  a 
moan,  that  had  in  it,  “My  God,  I  am  forsaken  !”  she  walked 
blindly  and  deafly  back  the  path  which  she  had  come;  for  she 
did  not  hear  the  voice  that  called  after  her,  again  and  again, 
“  Isabel,  Isabel !” 

How  often,  in  our  impetuous  anxiety,  we  fail  of  the  good 
which  a  little  calmness  and  patience  would  have  won !  The 
day  after  Chatterton  terminated  his  miserable  life,  there  came 
a  man  into  the  city  inquiring  for  him,  with  all  he  had  prayed 
for. 

In  the  heart  of  the  woods  the  path  I  have  spoken  of  termi¬ 
nated  beside  a  deep  and  sluggish  pool,  fringed  now  with  jagged 
and  sharp  splinters  and  points  of  ice,  but  the  middle  waters 
were  unfrozen,  and  bore  up  little  islands  of  moss  and  dead 
leaves;  and  across  these  black  waters,  in  the  wild  winds  of  the 
days  and  the  nights  that  followed,  streamed  over  the  white  face, 
that,  after  a  time,  came  up,  as  if  still  pressing  toward  the  light, 
the  long  tresses  of  the  woman  who  had  been  so  wrretched. 

Now,  beneath  the  mossy  mound  hard  by,  she  is  decently 
asleep,  nor  turns  for  the  moaning  of  the  night  wind,  nor  for  the 
step  of  the  little  child  that  sometimes,  in  summer,  walks  there, 
gathering  flowers  and  singing  to  herself. 

If  there  be  one  prayer  more  than  another  that  we  need 


238 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


always  in  our  hearts,  it  is  the  one  He  taught  us,  “  Lead  us  not 
into  temptation.”  How  many,  treading  in  as  straight  a  path, 
and  with  as  firm  a  step,  perhaps,  as  ourselves,  worn  and  weary 
with  the  toils  of  the  Jong  and  hard  wav,  beckoned  aside  into 
what  seemed  some  coo]  and  sheltered  place  of  rest,  have  been 
lost  forever.  Vain,  henceforth,  are  all  their  struggles  ;  darkly 
between  them  and  the  confidence  of  the  world,  between  them 
and  all  friendships  and  sympathies,  and  most  of  all,  between 
them  and  their  own  self-respect,  rises  evermore  the  shadow  of 
the  tempter  they  have  followed. 

Is  not  this  a  retribution  terrible  enough — that  men  and 
women  should  pause  from  their  own  vocations,  and,  with 
haughty  wrords  and  withering  looks,  measure  the  distance  be¬ 
tween  themselves  and  the  fallen,  even  when  their  own  way  has 
been  kept  with  feeble  and  faltering  steps,  and  when  the  very 
error  they  so  despise,  has  shone  up  like  a  light  revealing  the 
hideous  darkness  into  which  they  else  would  have  gone  ?  It  is 
of  the  erring  I  speak,  now,  and  not  of  the  criminal.  The  soul 
may  be  darkened  from  its  original  beauty,  yet  still  it  is  pre¬ 
cious,  else  in  heaven  there  would  not  be  such  joy  over  sinners 
that  repent. 

If  we  have  kept  our  robes  from  the  dust,  and  our  hands  and 
our  hearts  clean,  surelv  we  can  afford  to  be  charitable  and  mer- 

'  t/ 

ciful  towards  those  who  have  not:  but  even  if  so,  we  are  ever 
subject  to  vanity,  and  the  best  and  worthiest  man  or  woman 
has  reason  to  cry,  ‘"Lord,  be  merciful  to  me,  a  sinner!”  before 
the  Searcher  of  hearts.  Mercifulest  of  all,  when  the  wicked 
woman  was  brought  before  him,  was  he  who  was  without 
sin,  saying,  “Neither  do  I  condemn  thee.” 

One  little  act  of  kindness,  which  says  to  a  degenerate  brother, 
“  I  am  also  a  man,”  and,  consequently,  no  less  exposed  to  tempta¬ 
tion,  will  do  more  for  the  building  up  of  a  ruinous  humanity, 
than  ail  the  fiery-tipped  arrows  that  ever  went  hissing  from 
indignant  hands. 

I  have  little  charily  for  that  self-righteousness  which  mingles 
with  its  abhorrence  of  error  no  pity  for  the  erring.  Breathings 
of  denunciation  fill  the  world,  chilling  “that  best  warmth  that 
radiates  from  the  heart,  where  Love  sits  brooding  over  an 


THE  SUICIDE. 


289 


honest  purpose,”  and  darkening  the  great  light  that  is  con¬ 
tinually  round  about  us.  We  le-ave  the  wretched  to  “uncom¬ 
forted  and  friendless  solitude,”  where,  within  the  fiery  circle  of 
evil  thought,  “  the  soul  emmoulds  its  essence,  hopelessly  de¬ 
formed  by  sights  of  evermore  deformity.” 

With  other  ministrations,  thou,  O  Nature  ! 

Healest  thy  wandering  and  distempered  child ; 

Thou  pourest  on  him  thy  soft  influences, 

Thy  sunny  hues,  fair  forms,  and  breathing  sweets, 

Thy  melodies  of  words  and  winds  and  waters ! 

Till  he  relent  and  can  no  more  endure 
To  be  a  jarring  and  a  dissonant  thing 
Amid  this  general  dance  and  minstrelsy; 

But,  bursting  into  tears,  wins  back  his  way, 

His  angry  spirit  healed  and  harmonized 
By  the  benignant  touch  of  love  and  beauty. 

There  is  less  depravity  in  the  world  than  we  are  apt  to 
imagine,  and  I  doubt  not  but  there  is  something  good  in  almost 
every  nature,  which  the  leaves  of  kindness  might  reach,  and  so 
the  whole  man  be  regenerated. 

I  began  tl  is  chapter  by  allusion  to  the  beauty  of  true  lives ; 
and  if  she  of  whom  1  have  written  had  died  ere  the  flowers  of 
love  were  ever  made  heavy  with  tears,  her  life  would  have  been 
an  example  of  loveliness.  God  over  all,  blessed  forever ! 
grant  that  one  wild  shadow  swept  not  into  nothingness  all  the 
light. 


13 


290 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD, 


THE  COLLEGIAN’S  MISTAKE. 

I. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  the  month  of  July,  and  intensely 
not ;  scarcely  a  breeze  stirred  the  russet  gold  of  the  wheat- 
field,  in  which  two  men  were  at  work — the  one  pausing  now 
and  then  to  wipe  great  drops  of  sweat  from  his  forehead,  and 
push  back  his  gray  hair,  as  he  surveyed  the  heavy  swaths 
that  lay  drying  in  the  sun  ;  while  the  other  kept  right  on,  the 
steady  rush  of  his  cradle  sending  up  from  the  falling  grain  a 
thin  dust ;  and  bending  under  the  burning  heat,  and  laying  swath 
after  swath  of  the  ripe  wheat  beside  him,  he  moved  around  the 
field,  hour  after  hour,  never  whistling,  nor  singing,  nor  survey¬ 
ing  the  work  that  was  done,  nor  the  work  that  was  to  do. 

“  Willard,”  called  the  old  man,  as  for  the  third  time  the 
youth  passed  him  in  his  round — and  there  was  something  more 
impatient  than  kindly  in  his  tone — “  Willard,  what  in  the  name 
of  sense  possesses  you  to-day  ?  I  can  generally  swing  my 
cradle  about  as  fast  as  you,  old  as  I  am.  Leave  working  for  a 
half-hour  ;  you  will  gain  in  the  end  ;  and  let  us  cross  over  by 
way  of  the  spring,  and  rest  in  the  shade  of  the  locust  for  a 
while.” 

“  I  am  not  very  tired,”  answered  the  boy,  without  pausing 
from  his  work  ;  “go  on,  and  I  will  join  you  when  I  come  round 
again.” 

The  old  man  hesitated,  cut  a  few  vigorous  strokes,  threw 
down  his  cradle  in  the  middle  of  the  field,  and  turned  back. 
And  well  he  might ;  he  had  need  of  rest ;  the  grasshoppers 
could  not  hum,  it  was  so  hot,  and  the  black  beetles  crept  be- 
■  neath  the  leaves  and  under  the  edues  of  the  loose  clods,  and 
the  birds  hid  in  the  bushes,  and  dropped  their  wings  and  were 


THE  COLLEGIAN’S  MISTAKE. 


291 


still ;  only  the  cold,  clammy  snakes  crawled  from  their  places 
into  the  full  warmth. 

One  side  of  the  field  lay  the  public  road,  heaped  with  hot 
dust,  fetlock  deep ;  and  now  and  then  a  heavy  wagon  plowed 
along,  drawn  by  five  or  six  horses,  their  necks  ornamented  with 
bear  skins  and  brass  bells,  the  latter  sending  tinkling  music 
far  across  the  fields,  and  cheering  the  teamster’s  heart,  as 
beneath  his  broad-rimmed  straw-hat  he  trod  through  the  dry 
fennel  beside  his  stout  horses.  All  day  the  narrow  foot-path 
kept  the  print  of  naked  feet,  left  by  the  school  children  as  they 
went  to  and  came  from  their  tasks.  Bordering  the  field’s  edge, 
opposite  this  dusty  way,  was  a  wooded  hill,  at  the  base  of 
which,  beneath  a  clump  of  trees,  burst  out,  clear  and  cool,  a 
spring  of  the  purest  water.  To  the  north  lay  other  harvest- 
fields,  and  the  white  walls  of  cottages  and  homesteads  glim¬ 
mered  among  the  trees  ;  and  to  the  south,  nestled  in  the  midst 
of  a  little  cherry-orchard,  were  discernible  the  brown  walls  and 
mossy  roof  of  an  old  farm-house.  A  cool,  quiet,  shady  place 
it  looked,  and  most  inviting  to  the  tired  laborers ;  but  it  was 
toward  the  spring,  and  not  the  house,  that  the  old  man  bent  his 
steps  when  he  left  off  work. 

Having  drank,  from  a  cup  of  leaves,  the  tired  man  stretched 
himself  in  the  thick  shadow  that  ran  up  the  hillside  from  a 
cluster  of  sassafras  and  elms  that  grew  in  the  hollow.  But  he 
seemed  not  to  rest  well  ;  for  every  now  and  then  he  lifted  his 
head  from  its  pillow  of  grass,  and  looked  toward  the  field, 
where  the  young  man  was  still  at  his  labor.  More  than  an  hour 
had  elapsed,  when,  for  the  third  time  nearing  the  shadows,  and 
seeing,  perhaps,  the  anxious  look  directed  toward  him,  he  threw 
down  his  cradle,  and  staggered,  rather  than  walked,  along  the 
hollow  toward  the  spring,  and,  throwing  himself  flat  on  the 
ground,  he  drew  in  long  draughts  of  water  from  the  cool,  mossy 
stones.  As  he  rose,  his  cheeks  were  pale  from  exhaustion,  and 
his  long  black  hair  hung  in  heavy  wet  masses  down  his  neck 
and  forehead. 

“Well,  my  son,”  said  the  older  man,  rousing  from  his  slum¬ 
berous  reverie,  “you  have  come  at  last.”  The  youth  made  no 
reply,  and  he  continued,  “  If  I  had  been  as  smart,  we  should 


292 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


have  had  the  field  down  by  sunset ;  but  I  can’t  work  as  I  used 
— I  am  getting  old.”  And  his  blue  eyes  grew  moist,  as, 
drooping  them  on  the  ground,  he  silently  pulled  the  grass  and 
white  clover  blossoms  that  grew  at  his  feet,  and  scattered  them 
about. 

“  Oh,  no,  father,  you  are  not  so  very  old,”  replied  Willard, 
anxiously  and  earnestly ;  “  and  I  have  fewer  years  before  me 
than  you,  though  I  have  not  lived  quite  so  long.” 

“  It  may  be  so,”  said  the  father,  “  if  you  continue  to  work  so 
hard  ;  your  constitution  cannot  endure  as  much  as  mine.  See 
how  your  hands  are  trembling,  from  exhaustion,  now.” 

“  That  is  nothing  ;  I  shall  get  over  it  soon,  and  for  the  time 
to  come  I  shall  be  more  prudent ;  indeed,  I  have  been  thinking 
that  to  rise  an  hour  or  two  earlier,  and  rest  for  an  hour  or  two 
in  the  heat  of  the  day,  would  be  a  wiser  disposition  of  the 
time.”  The  father  made  no  reply,  and  he  added,  “  In  that  way 
I  shall  be  able  to  do  almost  everything,  and  you  need  only 
work  for  recreation.” 

“And  so,  Willard,”  said  the  old  man,  at  length,  “you  have 
been  tasking  yourself  so  heavily  to-day  on  my  account  ?” 

The  son  did  not  reply  directly ;  in  fact,  he  had  been  influ¬ 
enced  by  far  other  than  kindly  feelings  toward  anybody  in  the 
energetic  prosecution  of  his  work  ;  farming  was  not  to  his  taste; 
the  excessive  heat  that  day  had  made  him  irritable  ;  and  to  be 
revenged  on  fate,  and  in  defiance  of  his  failing  strength,  he  had 
labored  with  all  his  might.  But  his  sullenness  subsided  at  the 
first  word  of  kindness  ;  and  he  felt  that  his  father  was  indeed 
getting  old,  and  that  what  he  said  about  doing  all  the  work  in 
future  was  perfectly  sincere. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  broken  at  last  by  the  elder  of  the 
two.  “  You  have  always  had  a  great  notion  of  books,  Willard ; 
and  I  have  been  thinking  that  if  I  could  send  you  to  college, 
you  might  live  more  easily  than  I  have  done.” 

“  If  I  could  go,  father,  I  should  be  very  glad  ;  but  if  you 
were  able  to  send  me,  I  could  not  be  spared  very  well ;”  and 
in  a  moment  he  added,  “  Could  I  V'  in  the  hope  of  hearing 
something  further  urged  in  favor  of  his  wishes. 

“There  is  ‘Brock’  we  might  sell,”  the  father  remarked, 


THE  COLLEGIAN’S  MISTAKE. 


293 


musingly  ;  “  and  then  I  should  be  able  to  spare  some  hay  and 
oats  this  fall.  Yes,  I  think  we  can  manage ;  that  is,  if  you 
have  a  mind  to  let  Brock  go.” 

“  I  should  not  mind  parting  with  him  ;  he  is  six  years  old, 
and  will  never  be  worth  more  than  now ;  besides,  I  can  buy 
plenty  of  horses,  good  as  he,  if  I  ever  want  them.” 

An  hour  was  consumed  in  speculations  of  one  sort  and 
another,  and  the  shadows  had  crept  far  up  the  hill  when  they 
arose  to  resume  their  occupation. 

“But  how,”  said  Willard,  as  they  walked  toward  the  field, 
“  will  you  get  along  at  home  ?”  for  it  was  now  almost  a  settled 
point  that  he  should  go  to  college. 

“  Do  n’t  be  troubled  about  us  ;  our  hearts  are  here,  and  that 
makes  work  go  much  easier  ;  besides,  we  have  lived  our  day — 
your  mother  and  I — it  is  little  matter  about  us ;  but  you,  Wil¬ 
lard,  you  are  young  and  ambitious,  and  so  smart.  Linney,”  he 
added,  after  a  moment,  “  will  miss  you.” 

The  young  man  seemed  not  to  hear  this  remark,  and  taking 
up  their  cradles,  the  father  and  the  son  worked  and  talked  to¬ 
gether  till  set  of  sun.  The  grain  was  all  down  ;  and  as  they 
swung  their  cradles  over  their  shoulders  to  go  home,  the  old 
man  sighed,  and,  looking  on  the  sparkling  eyes  and  flushed  face 
of  the  youth,  he  said,  “  Perhaps  we  may  never  reap  this  field 
together  again.” 

Willard  had  always  thought  it  would  make  him  very  happy 
to  know  he  should  not  have  to  swing  the  cradle  any  more ;  but 
somehow  his  father’s  words  made  his  heart  heavy ;  and,  in 
spite  of  the  fast-coming  beard,  he  turned  away  and  brushed  the 
tears  from  his  browned  cheek  with  the  back  of  his  hand.  He 
tried  to  count  the  outside  passengers  of  the  stage-coach,  as  it 
rattled  past,  filling  all  the  road  with  clouds  of  dust,  in  vain — 
he  was  thinking  of  something  else  ;  the  old  farm,  that  he  had 
sometimes  almost  hated,  looked  beautiful  now :  the  ripe  stand¬ 
ing  harvests,  and  the  yellow  stubble-fields,  stretching  away 
toward  the  woodland,  and  the  red  and  orange  shadows  trem¬ 
bling  along  the  hill-sides  and  among  the  green  leaves.  A  little 
and  a  little  more  he  lingered,  till,  finally,  where  the  birds 
chirped  in  the  hedge  which  divided  the  meadow  from  the 


294 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


wheat-field,  he  stopped  still.  Twitters  and  trills,  and  long 
melancholy  cries,  and  quick  gushing  songs,  all  mingled  and 
blended  together,  and  the  stir  of  leaves  and  the  whirr  of  wings 
sounded  through  and  over  all.  The  blue  morning-glories  had 
puckered  up  their  bells,  but  looked  pretty  yet,  and  the  open 
trumpet-flowers  hung  bright  and  flaunting  everywhere. 

Many  a  time  he  had  come  out  to  the  hedge  with  Linney 
Carpenter  in  the  summer  twilights.  Now  he  might  not  come 
any  more ;  and  if  he  went  away,  she  would  forget  him — per¬ 
haps  love  some  one  else. 

There  was  a  crashing  and  cracking  of  the  boughs  in  the 
hedge,  and  Brock,  pressing  as  near  as  he  could,  leaned  his 
slender  head  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  young  man.  “  No,  no, 
I  will  not  sell  you  !”  he  exclaimed,  parting  away  the  boughs 
which  divided  them  ;  “  a  thousand  dollars  would  not  buy  you  !” 
and  for  a  half  hour  he  caressed  and  talked  to  the  beautiful 
animal,  as  though  he  had  been  a  reasoning  creature.  At  the 
end  of  that  time  he  was  pretty  nearly  resolved  to  think  no 
more  of  the  college  ;  and,  dismissing  the  horse,  with  an  abrupt 
promise  to  keep  him  always,  he  bent  his  steps  hurriedly  home¬ 
ward.  But  Brock  had  either  a  sudden  fit  of  fondness,  or  else 
some  premonition  of  the  hard  things  meditated  against  him, 
and  he  followed  his  young  master  at  a  little  distance,  droop- 
ingly  and  noiselessly.  Willard  had  just  reached  the  boundary 
of  the  cherry-orchard,  bending  wearily  under  his  cradle,  and 
with  his  face  begrimed  with  dust  and  sweat,  when  a  wave  of 
sweet  perfumes  came  against  him  ;  and,  looking  up,  he  beheld 
in  the  path  directly  before  him  a  graduate  of  the  most  cele¬ 
brated  institution  of  learning  then  in  the  west.  “  Ay,  how  are 
you,  Hulbert?”  he  said,  approaching,  and  stripping  the  kid-glove 
off  his  delicate  hand. 

W7illard  recognized  him  as  a  former  school-fellow  and  play¬ 
mate,  but  his  greeting  was  cold  and  formal,  expressing  nothing 
of  the  cordial  surprise  which  a  sometime  absent  friend  might 
have  expected.  Having  addressed  him  as  Mr.  Welden,  he  set 
his  cradle  on  the  ground  beside  him,  dashed  back  his  heavy, 
wet  hair,  and  seemed  to  wait  for  the  young  man  to  make  known 


THE  COLLEGIAN’S  MISTAKE. 


295 


his  errand,  which,  however,  he  did  not  at  once  do,  but  said 
instead,  something  of  the  heat  of  the  day. 

“  I  should  scarcely  have  expected  you  to  know  anything 
about  it,”  Willard  replied,  drily. 

“Why,  I  have  been  making  hay,  and  think  I  should  know,” 
answered  Welden  ;  “just  look  here,”  and  he  showed  two  blisters 
on  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

But  Willard  was  in  one  of  those  dissatisfied  moods  which  an 
angel  could  not  soften,  and,  simply  saying,  “  Is  it  possible  ?”  he 
took  up  the  cradle  again.  He  felt  as  if  the  blistered  hands  had 
offered  a  terrible  insult  to  his  own,  which  were  too  much  accus¬ 
tomed  to  toil  to  be  affected  in  that  way. 

“  Will  you  go  to  the  house,  Mr.  Welden  ]”  he  said,  after  he 
had  advanced  a  step  or  two.  The  habitual,  or,  it  may  be,  well- 
bred  amiability  of  Mr.  Welden,  seemed  not  at  all  disturbed, 
and,  politely  assenting,  he  followed  rather  than  accompanied 
the  moody  young  farmer  to  the  house,  replying  for  the  most 
part  to  his  own  observations. 

“  He  accepts  my  invitation  in  the  hope  of  seeing  Linney,” 
thought  Willard,  “and  not  that  he  cares  anything  about  me;” 
but,  to  his  equal  surprise  and  displeasure,  the  gentleman  seemed 
not  to  notice  Linney  at  all.  “  Perhaps  he  thinks  her  beneath 
his  notice,”  said  Willard  to  himself.  “If  he  does,  he  is  mis¬ 
taken  ;  she  is  as  good  as  he,  or  any  one  like  him.” 

Reaching  the  house,  there  was  still  no  perceptible  improve¬ 
ment  in  the  youth’s  temper,  despite  many  kindly  advances  on 
the  part  of  his  guest. 

“And  so  you  are  going  to  college]”  Mr.  Welden  said. 

“Ay,  indeed  am  I,”  he  answered,  petulantly,  and  without 
looking  up. 

“Willard,  Willard!”  interposed  Mr.  Hulbert,  with  a  re¬ 
proving  look,  that  sent  blood  mantling  into  his  cheek  and 
forehead ;  for  such  correction  from  his  father  implied  that  he 
was  still  a  boy,  and  it  was  that,  joined  to  the  knowledge  that 
he  merited  a  more  severe  rebuke,  which  stung  him. 

The  family  were  at  tea,  and  but  for  the  coming  pride  of  man¬ 
hood,  he  could  have  risen  from  the  table,  and  gone  out  into  the 
night,  and  cried.  That  privilege  was  denied  him,  however,  and, 


296 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


trying  to  feel  that  he  was  the  injured  and  unoffending  party,  he 
sat  sullenly  silent  till  the  meal  was  concluded. 

Mr.  Welden  then  said,  apologetically,  “As  I  was  passing 
here,  Willard,  I  chanced  to  meet  your  father,  who  informed  me 
you  were  going  to  college,  and  that,  having  no  further  use  for 
him,  you  would  dispose  of  a  fine  horse  you  have.” 

“  1  am  obliged  to  you  for  so  politely  suggesting  my  necessi¬ 
ties.  I  cannot  afford  to  leave  home  for  this  purpose  unless  I 
sell  the  horse — that  is  the  amount.” 

“Then  there  is  no  obstacle  in  your  way  ;  for,  unless  your 
terms  are  exorbitant,  I  can  find  a  purchaser  ;  in  fact,  I  would 
like  to  get  him  myself.”  But  that  he  was  afraid  to  do,  as  he 
would  have  said  he  wanted  the  horse,  and  would  have  him  at 
any  price.  “  I  will  come  to-morrow  morning,”  he  concluded, 
as  he  took  leave,  after  some  further  conversation,  “and  then 
we  shall  both  have  determined  what  we  can  afford  to  do; 
Good-night !” 

“Good-night — and  the  devil  go  with  you!”  muttered  Wil 
lard  ;  and,  sitting  down  against  an  old  apple-tree,  he  threw  his 
hat  on  the  grass  beside  him,  folded  his  arms,  about  which  hung 
gracefully  the  full  shirt-sleeves,  and  gave  way  to  the  mingled 
feelings  which  had  been  gathering  in  his  heart — feelings  which 
could  be  repressed  only  with  tears.  The  harvest  moon  came 
up  round  and  full,  the  dew  gathered  on  the  grassland  dropped 
heavily  now  and  then  from  the  apple-tree  boughs  ;  and  far 
away  hooted  and  called  the  owl  ;  but  all  beside  was  still. 

And  here,  lost  in  bitter  musings,  we  will  leave  the  young 
man  for  a  little  while,  to  speak  of  Linney,  who  does  not  see 
the  pride  and  ambition  that  darken  between  her  and  her  hopes. 
Her  history  may  be  comprised  in  a  few  words.  A  poor  man, 
living  a  short  distance  from  Clovernook,  died,  leaving  a  large 
family,  who,  as  fast  as  they  were  old  enough,  must  needs  be 
sent  from  home,  to  earn  something  for  themselves.  One  of 
these  was  Linney,  who  fortunately  fell  into  the  care  of  Mrs. 
Hulbert,  a  plain,  good,  quiet  woman,  with  a  pale  face,  full  of 
benevolence,  and  blue  eyes,  beaming  with  love.  She  had  never 
considered  the  girl  as  a  servant,  but  in  all  ways  treated  her 
kindly  as  she  did  her  own  child.  It  was,  indeed,  for  the  good 


THE  COLLEGIAN’S  MISTAKE. 


297 


of  the  orphan,  and  not  for  her  own,  that  she  first  received  her 
beneath  her  roof.  She  and  Willard,  who  was  four  years  older, 
had  been  playmates,  and  workmates,  too,  for  the  Hulberts  were 
far  from  rich,  and,  though  they  owned  the  farm  on  which  they 
lived,  it  required  thrift  and  economy  and  continual  labor,  to 
keep  the  fences  in  repair,  pay  the  taxes,  and  supply  the  house¬ 
hold  wants.  They  had  made  the  garden,  edging  the  vegetable 
beds  with  rows  of  hollyhocks  and  prince’s  feathers  ;  they  had 
gathered  the  eggs,  and  fed  the  broods  of  young  chickens,  and 
shook  down  and  gathered  up  the  ripe  apples  ;  they  had  hunted 
the  silver-white  hickory-nuts  along  the  brown,  windy  woods  of 
November,  gathered  the  small  black-frost  grapes  from  the  long 
tangling  vines  that  ran  over  the  stunted  red  trees,  making 
pyramids  of  their  tops  ;  and  in  these  sometimes  they  had 
climbed,  and  as  they  sat  fronting  the  sun,  and  rocking  merrily, 
Linney  had  listened  to  the  first  ambitious  dreams  that  bright¬ 
ened  the  humble  way  of  her  companion.  “  When  I  am  a  man, 
Linney,  I  am  going  to  be  rich.  I  will  have  a  house  as  big  as 
two  of  father’s,  all  painted  red,  and  with  corner  cupboards  in 
the  parlor,  full  of  honey-jars  and  roast  turkey.  Then  I  mean 
to  have  a  fine  coach,  that  will  move  along  more  softly  than 
these  vines  move  now  ;  and  I  will  ride  outside  and  drive  the 
horses,  and  you  shall  be  a  lady,  and  ride  within  ;  and  if  George 
W  elden  happens  to  be  anywhere  about,  we  ’ll  run  right  over  him.” 

Of  such  sort  were  the  dreams  of  the  boy,  and  whatever  good 
fortune  he  pictured  for  himself,  it  was  forever  to  be  shared  by 
his  playmate  ;  and  always  the  crowning  of  his  delights  was  to 
be  a  triumph  in  some  way  over  George  Welden — a  lad  whose 
only  crime  was  that  he  was  the  son  of  a  man  of  fortune,  that 
lie  wore  fashionable  clothes,  and  rode  to  the  academy  on  a  pony 
of  his  own;  while  Willard’s  garments  were  patched,  and  he 
walked  barefooted  to  the  free-school.  True,  George  was  an 
amiable  boy,  and  often  came  to  play  with  him  ;  but  Willard 
said  he  only  pretended  to  be  very  good,  for,  in  fact,  he  was 
selfish  and  ugly  as  he  could  be.” 

As  he  grew  older,  and  as  they  walked  in  the  orchard,  or  sat 
in  the  shade  of  some  favorite  tree,  his  dreams  took  other  shapes  ; 
or  if  he  still  thought  he  should  be  rich,  and  ride  in  a  coach  with 


298 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Linney,  he  no  longer  said  so ;  nor  did  he  now  talk  of  running 
over  George  Welden.  Still  he  dreamed  of  a  great  world  that 
was  somewhere — he  had  no  definite  notion  where — but  outside 
the  little  circle  in  which  he  lived — a  world  where  sorrow  was 
scarcely  sorrow",  but  only  a  less  degree  of  happiness,  and  where 
everything  was  loftier  and  grander  than  the  things  with  which 
he  was  familiar.  And  how  to  get  out  of  the  one  world  and 
into  the  other,  was  the  subject  that  occupied  his  thoughts 
mostly,  as  he  grew  into  maturer  boyhood.  He  became  more 
thoughtful,  less  communicative,  and  often,  when  he  strayed 
into  the  orchard,  or  sat  in  the  shade,  it  was  alone.  George 
Welden  wras  gone  to  college. 

Linney  was  fifteen,  and  a  pretty  girl,  quiet  and  amiable  ; 
and  if  she  had  any  ambition,  it  was  for  Willard,  and  not  for 
herself.  It  w7as  little  she  could  do,  but  all  that  seemed  possible 
to  do,  she  did  quietly,  joyously.  The  long  winter  evenings  she 
employed  in  knitting,  and  all  she  could  earn  in  that  way,  was 
her  own  ;  and  in  the  summer  she  picked  berries  sometimes, 
which  Mr.  Hulbert  sold  for  her  in  the  market.  The  little 
money  thus  accumulated  was  carefully  put  by  for  Willard. 
She  had  amassed  at  length  nine  dollars ;  and  when  she  should 
get  ten,  she  had  resolved  to  reveal  to  him  the  precious  secret, 
and  perhaps  they  wrould  go  to  town  together  and  buy  books ; 
for  she  had  heard  him  relate  some  stories  he  had  read,  and  she 
smiled,  thinking  how  many  he  would  have  to  tell  when  he 
should  read  all  the  new  books  they  wTould  buy. 

Willard  was  now  nearly  twenty.  His  life  had  been  all 
passed  at  home,  and  mostly  in  working  on  the  farm.  Sundays 
he  had  gone  to  church  with  Linney,  and  in  the  longer  evenings 
he  had  read  some  of  the  few  books  they  possessed,  while  she 
employed  herself  with  knitting  or  sewing.  So,  sharing  the 
same  toils,  and  hopes,  and  fears,  they  had  grown  very  dear  to 
each  other — more  dear  than  they  were  aware  till  the  parting 
came.  They  had  never  spoken  of  love,  but  whatever  Linney’s 
feelings  or  dreams,  Willard  regarded  her  as  one  of  whom  no 
one  but  himself  had  a  right  to  think  at  all. 

“Where  in  the  world  can  Willard  be  so  long1?”  said  his 


THE  COLLEGIAN’S  MISTAKE. 


299 


mother,  anxiously,  as  she  sat  with  her  husband  and  Linney  on 
the  low  porch,  in  the  yellow  moonlight. 

“  I  don ’t  know,”  answered  Linney,  after  a  pause ;  and  Mrs. 
Hulbert  continued,  “  He  did  not  seem  well  at  supper,  poor 
boy  !” 

“  True,”  answered  Mr.  Hulbert,  significantly ;  in  a  moment 
adding,  “I  think  he  needs  to  go  to  college,  or  somewhere  else.” 

“  Seems  to  me  the  air  is  chilly,”  said  the  mother,  not  heeding 
the  suggestion  of  the  father  ;  and,  with  a  shiver,  she  arose,  and 
went  into  the  house. 

It  was  lonesome  to  Linney,  as  she  sat  there  with  the  old 
man  ;  a  cricket  chirped  under  the  doorstep,  early  as  it  was  in 
the  season,  and  the  heavy  breathing  of  the  cows,  as  they  lay 
together  in  the  near  yard,  was  heard  now  and  then.  The  view 
was  closely  shut  in  by  a  thick  grove  of  cherry-trees — only  the 
gray  gable  of  the  barn  was  to  be  seen  over  their  black  shadows. 
Linney  rose,  and,  wrapping  a  shawl  about  her,  for  the  evening, 
as  Mrs.  Hulbert  had  said,  was  cool,  she  walked  out  into  the 
moonlight.  She  had  not,  perhaps,  very  clearly  apprehended 
her  motive,  though  it  would  very  readily  have  suggested  itself 
to  another. 

She  had  not  long  pursued  her  lonely  walk,  when  she  encoun¬ 
tered  the  object  of  her  thoughts,  sitting,  moody  and  silent,  under 
a  tree.  lie  looked  up  as  she  approached,  but  did  not  speak  ; 
Linney,  however,  cared  little  for  this — she  could  have  found 
excuses  for  him  had  he  been  twice  as  morose  ;  and,  seating  her¬ 
self  on  a  tuft  of  clover,  a  little  way  from  him,  she  talked  cheer¬ 
fully  and  hopefully  of  the  future.  Not  till  she  had  disclosed 
the  long-cherished  secret  about  the  money  she  had  saved  for 
him,  did  his  stubborn  humor  bend  at  all.  Taking  from  his 
pocket  a  large  red  silk  handkerchief,  he  spread  it  on  the  grass 
beside  him,  saying,  “Won’t  you  sit  here,  Linney1?”  and  when 
she  did  so,  he  said,  by  way  of  apology  for  his  rudeness,  “That 
George  Welden  has  been  the  curse  of  my  life  !” 

“Never  mind  him,  Willard;  you  need  not  be  envious  of 
any  one,  now !” 

He  laughed,  because  he  thought  there  was  something  amusing 
in  her  limited  notions  of  position  and  independence  ;  but,  in 


800 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


truth,  he  felt  more  elevated  and  self-sufficient  than  she  could 
think  him,  now  that  he  was  to  go  to  school,  and  have  nine 
dollars,  all  his  own,  to  do  with  as  he  pleased.  And  as 
he  was  reconciled  to  himself,  and  George  Welden  forgotten, 
they  were  very  happy.  A  long  time  they  lingered  under  the 
apple-tree,  the  yellow  harvest  moonlight  falling  quietly  through, 
and  though  neither  said  to  the  other,  “  1  love  you,”  it  was  felt 
that  it  was  so. 

They  might  sit  under  that  apple-tree  now,  as  then,  but 
through  the  yellow  moonlight  each  would  look  upon  how 
different  a  world!  And  would  they  be  happier? 

At  last  they  returned  to  the  house,  and  Willard  said,  “  When 
at  the  close  of  the  session  I  come  home,  what  a  joyous  time  it 
will  be !  And  you,  Linney,  will  be  as  glad  to  see  me  as  I 
you  ?” 

“  Oh,  Willard  !  can  you  ask  ?  1  shall  pass  all  the  days  we 

are  parted  in  thinking  of  the  time  when  we  are  to  meet.  But 
you  will  be’  so  wise,  then,”  she  continued,  half  sadly,  “I  shall 
not  be  a  fit  companion  for  you.” 

“Linney  !”  he  said,  quickly,  looking  reproachfully;  and  per¬ 
haps  he  felt  at  the  same  time  that  her  fear  was  unkind. 

“  Oh  !  no,”  she  answered,  as  though  he  had  assured  her  of 
his  truth,  “you  will  not  forget  me — I  know  you  will  not;  and 
how  happy  we  shall  be,  and  how  much  you  will  know,  to 
tell  me  !” 

A  week  afterwards  Brock  was  pacing  proudly  to  the  guidance 
of  a  fairer  hand  than  Willard’s  ;  the  old  man  was  at  work 
alone,  making  shocks  of  the  wheat;  Mrs.  Hulbert  sat  on  the 
porch  sewing,  and  thinking  what  would  be  nice  for  her  good 
man’s  supper ;  and  Linney  was  in  the  shadow  of  the  apple- 
tree,  her  heart  fluttering,  and  her  hands  unwrapping  from  its 
brown  paper  envelop  a  small  parcel,  which  she  had  that  day 
discovered  on  the  table  of  her  own  room,  addressed  to  herself 
in  the  round  and  careful  but  not  yet  very  graceful  hand  of 
Willard.  He  had  meant  it  as  a  pleasant  surprise  for  her,  she 
knew  ;  but  he  could  not  have  fancied  it  would  be  so  pleasant 
as  it  was — it  seemed  like  a  new  tie  between  them.  And  if  it 
seemed  so  while  she  knew  not  yet  what  it  was,  how  much 


THE  COLLEGIAN’S  MISTAKE. 


301 


stronger  seemed  the  tic  when  the  wrapper  was  removed,  and 
she  saw  within  it  a  small  bible,  bound  in  red  morocco  and  gilt. 
She  opened  it,  and,  on  the  blank  leaf,  read — 

“  Steal  not  this  book,  for  fear  of  shame, 

For  here  you  find  the  owner’s  name. 

“  Malinda  Htjlbert.” 


She  blushed,  though  no  one  saw  her,  to  see,  with  the  couplet 
gracing  the  books  of  so  many  school  boys — the  name  which 
had  never  been  whispered — even  to  herself — written  clearly 
out. 

Kissing  the  book,  she  pressed  it  close  to  her  bosom,  while 
she  recounted  the  hours  and  the  days  that  Willard  had  been 
gone,  saying — “  In  six  days  more  he  will  have  been  gone  two 
weeks  ;  and  then  another  week  will  soon  go,  and  then  another, 
and  he  will  have  been  gone  a  month  ;  then  I  shall  get  a  letter, 
and  in  four  months  after  that  he  will  come  home.”  Further 
than  this  she  did  not  suffer  her  thoughts  to  go,  but,  concealing 
the  book,  she  returned  to  the  house  very  happy  ;  yet  there  was 
one  sad  reflection  :  Willard  had  appropriated  two  dollars  of 
the  money,  especially  designed  for  his  own  use,  to  the  getting 
of  the  Bible. 


II. 


The  days  seemed  longer  and  the  tasks  heavier,  now  that 
Willard  came  not  at  sunset  from  the  field  ;  and  somehow  or 
other  the  walks  through  the  orchard  and  the  grove  lost  their 
charm  ;  but  what  with  work  and  hope,  the  time  went  by,  and 
the  day  of  the  expected  letter  arrived.  With  the  earliest  dawn, 
and  long  ere  the  harmless  fires  of  sunrise  ran  along  the  faded 
summits  of  the  hills,  Linney  was  astir.  The  wood  seemed  to 
kindle  of  itself,  and  when  she  brought  in  her  pail  of  milk,  the 
kettle  was  singing  about  coffee.  All  day  she  watched  the 
clouds  with  unusual  interest ;  and  once  or  twice  walked  to  the 
road,  and  looked  anxiously  in  the  direction  of  the  post-office  ; 
and  when  toward  evening  she  saw  the  deep  gray  dust  dimpled 
with  heavy  drops  of  rain,  her  heart  misgave  her  sadly.  As 
many  clouds  were  white,  however,  as  black,  and  as  they  chased 
each  other  swiftly  by,  the  sun  shone  through  now  and  then,  and 


302 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


the  wind  came  roughly  along  sometimes,  and  dried  the  dust 
and  grass,  so  the  girl  took  hope  again. 

Before  the  dinner  hour,  the  house  was  set  in  order ;  the 
Saturday’s  work  was  done  ;  and  Linney,  long  in  advance  of 
the  coming  of  the  coach  which  should  bring  the  mail,  made 
preparations  for  her  walk,  and  seated  herself  at  the  window  to 
watch  for  the  distant  cloud  of  dust  that  would  indicate  its 
approach.  It  seemed  as  if  the  sun  would  never  set ;  but  when 
it  did,  still  the  coach  did  not  come.  “  It  is  always  the  way,” 
said  Linney  ;  “  I  might  have  known  it  would  not  be  here  till 
midnight and,  going  to  her  own  room,  she  unfolded  the  Bible 
from  its  careful  envelop,  and  gazed  earnestly  for  a  few  minutes 
on  the  name  written  there,  and  kissed  it,  for  the  dear  hand  that 
had  traced  it ;  then,  closing  the  volume,  resumed  her  watching. 
At  last,  the  heads  of  the  gray  horses  were  seen  coming  over 
the  hill  ;  in  a  moment  her  little  cottage-bonnet  was  on,  and  her 
gray  shawl  wrapped  about  her,  and,  with  a  beating  heart  and 
quick  step,  she  was  on  her  way  toward  the  Clovernook  post- 
office. 

“  I  know  there  will  be  no  letter  for  me,”  she  said,  to 
strengthen  herself  against  disappointment,  as  she  drew  near 
the  grocery — in  one  corner  of  which,  on  a  few  shelves,  the  letters 
and  papers  that  found  their  way  to  our  neighborhood,  were 
kept. 

Her  heart  beat  eagerly  as  the  post-master  slipped  letter  after 
letter  through  his  hands  ;  but  at  last  her  eyes  fell  on  the  long- 
expected  treasure  ;  it  was  from  Willard  ;  and  there  was  another 
for  Mr.  Hulbcrt,  from  Willard,  too,  but  Linney  looked  not  so 
anxiously  on  that.  I  need  not  repeat  the  contents  of  either — 
they  may  readily  be  guessed.  The  one  to  his  parents  related 
chiefly  to  the  neighborhood  and  its  inhabitants,  the  teachers  and 
students,  his  own  prospects  and  hopes  for  the  future,  with  an 
earnest  wish  that  he  might  repay  them  for  all  they  had  done 
and  were  doing  for  him.  But  to  Linney  he  did  not  write  of 
these  things,  nor  of  other  things  or  persons,  but  as  though  they 
themselves  and  their  hopes  made  up  all  the  world. 

And  so  Linney  performed  her  tasks,  with  renewed  energy,  - 
and  knitted  with  fresh  courage,  even  when  not  occupied  with  the 


THE  COLLEGIAN’S  MISTAKE. 


303 


comparatively  easy  tasks  imposed  on  her  by  Mrs.  Hulbert ; 
she  would  earn  a  new  dress  and  hat  by  the  time  Willard  could 
come  home  ;  and  what  a  pleasant  surprise  they  would  be  to 
him  !  A  sweet  vision  it  was,  that  made  beautiful  many  an 
evening,  as  she  sat  by  the  stone-hearth  of  the  old  homestead. 
At  her  feet  chirped  the  crickets,  before  her  blazed  the  logs,  and 
beside  her  good  Mrs.  Hulbert  talked  of  the  sickness  and  deaths 
and  merry-makings  of  the  neighborhood,  and  made  occasional 
observations  on  the  condition  of  the  weather,  which  was  one  of 
her  favorite  subjects.  “  Twenty  years  ago,”  she  was  apt  to  say, 
we  had  an  early  foil  ;  the  apples  froze  on  the  trees,  and  the  late 
turnips  were  not  worth  a  cent.”  Every  day  and  every  week  she 
compared  or  contrasted  with  some  other  day  or  week,  five,  ten,  or 
twenty  years  agone.  So,  Linney  was  no  longer  interested  in 
any  of  the  warm  spells  that  had  ever  thawed  the  frosts  of 
January  and  brought  forward  the  untimely  fruit,  nor  in  the 
great  freshets  that  had  swept  off  fences  and  bridges,  and 
drowned  a  lamb  or  two,  perhaps,  nor  yet  in  the  wicked  frosts 
that  blackened  the  peach  blossoms  and  wilted  the  young  cu¬ 
cumber  vines,  some  time  long  ago. 

The  winter  evenings,  as  1  have  said,  must  have  been  tedious, 
but  for  the  bright  dream  of  Linney.  It  was  only  a  dream ; 
and  the  boughs  were  bare  of  the  roses,  the  next  summer,  that 
she  kept  blooming  about  her  all  the  winter. 

In  the  evenings  when  the  village  gossip  had  been  discussed, 
the  business  of  the  farm  reviewed,  and  the  weather  considered, 
Mrs.  Hulbert  never  foiled,  as  she  arose  to  wind  the  clock,  to 
speak  of  Willard;  and  then,  at  least,  Linney  was  an  attentive 
listener.  “  I  wish  he  was  here,  poor  boy,”  she  was  apt  to  say, 
as  though  he  suffered  continual  privation,  while  enjoying  books 
and  pleasant  society  and  good  dinners,  and  she  fared  frugally 
and  worked  hard.  Any  one  else  could  see  that  there  was  at 
least  a  partnership  of  sacrifice  in  this  separation  ;  but  how 
should  Mrs.  Hulbert1?  She  was  Willard’s  mother. 

And  night  after  night  the  crickets  hopped  across  the  hearth 
familiarly,  and  told  their  old  story  ;  and  Linney  worked  by 
the  firelight,  and  thought  and  dreamed.  And  this  was  the 
crowning  of  her  visions — a  little  white  cottage,  with  blue  morn- 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


sot 


ing-glories  all  over  the  porch,  trumpet-flowers  and  sweet-briers 
veiling  the  windows,  a  cool,  deep  well  at  the  door,  herself 
making  tea  there,  and  sometimes  parting  away  the  vines,  to 
see,  across  the  fields,  if  Willard  was  coming  from  his  fields; 
forever,  in  her  most  ambitious  musings,  Willard  was  but  a 
farmer,  looking  and  talking  just  as  he  did  when  they  parted, 
and  not  a  man  of  books  and  leisure  ;  she  could  not  fancy  how 
anything  could  change  him  ;  she  knew  she  did  not  wish  him  to 
be  different.  Sometimes  she  found  recreation  in  fancies  of 
what  would  be  in  his  next  letter  ;  for  she  soon  grew  so  familiar 
with  the  contents  of  the  first  one,  that  there  was  no  need  to 
remove  it  any  more  from  the  lids  of  the  Bible.  At  length  the 
time  came  round  again  ;  and  now  the  road  was  frozen,  and  the 
trees  were  all  bare.  The  stage-coach  did  not  arrive  till  after 
nightfall ;  but  Linney  would  not  stay  away.  All  the  day  she 
had  been  singing  at  her  work,  so  blithely,  that  Mrs.  Hulbert 
more  than  once  said,  “  I  have  not  seen  you  so  gay  since  Willard 
left  us — poor  boy  !” 

Linney  did  not  feel  the  frozen  ground  beneath  her  feet  as  she 
walked,  nor  the  bitter  air  as  it  blew  against  her  face  and  bosom. 
She  went  fast,  and  was  soon  at  the  end  of  her  little  journey. 
About  the  red-hot  stove  were  gathered  a  dozen  men,  chewing 
and  smoking,  and  debating  their  various  and  trifling  interests 
in  tones  as  loud  and  earnest  as  though  they  were  discussing  the 
affairs  of  the  nation.  With  eyes  modestly  downcast  from  the 
earthen  jars  and  shining  delf  and  gay  prints  that  adorned  the 
shop,  she  made  her  way  to  the  corner  occupied  by  the  post¬ 
master,  and  received  a  letter.  Of  course,  it  was  from  Willard, 
and  she  retired  without  so  much  as  glancing  at  it ;  nor  did  she 
do  so  till  she  was  passing  the  tavern  lamp,  a  quarter  of  a  mile, 
perhaps,  on  her  way  homeward.  What  was  her  surprise,  her 
disappointment,  on  seeing,  that  though  it  was  indeed  from  Wil¬ 
lard,  it  was  not  for  her,  but  for  his  father.  For  a  moment  all 
was  blank  and  chill ;  but  hope  will  flutter  long  before  it  dies, 
and  in  a  moment  she  had  turned  and  was  retracing  her  steps  : 
there  must  be  a  letter  for  her,  which  had  been  overlooked. 
She  did  not  go  back,  however,  without  hesitancy  and  shame, 
for  in  her  childish  simplicity  she  fancied  all  would  know  the 


THE  COLLEGIAN'S  MISTAKE. 


805 


thoughts  and  hopes  that  were  in  her  heart.  “Will  you  please 
look  again,  sir!”  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  tremulous;  “I 
expected  a  letter  for  myself  to-night !” 

The  man  turned  the  letters  hastily,  very  carelessly,  she 
thought,  and  said,  as  he  replaced  them,  “  We  don’t  always  get 
all  we  expect,  as  you  will  find,  if  you  live  long  enough.” 

When  she  reached  the  door,  tears  blinded  her  eyes  so  much 
that  she  did  not  see  who  the  gentleman  was  who  passed  in  at 
the  same  moment,  but  she  knew  the  light  and  elegant  carriage, 
and  the  sleek  and  proud  animal  that  stamped  on  the  hard  ground 
so  impatiently.  She  had  only  proceeded  a  short  distance,  when 
the  sound  of  approaching  wheels  and  the  snorting  of  a  horse, 
admonished  her  to  turn  aside.  “  I  suppose  he  would  run  over 
me  if  I  did  not,”  she  thought,  and  though  she  continued,  “  1 
would  not  much  care  if  he  did,”  she  approached  the  edge  of  the 
road,  and  as  she  did  so,  a  low,  kindly  voice  gave  her  the  saluta¬ 
tion  of  the  evening,  the  impatient  Brock  curved  his  neck  to  the 
tightening  rein,  and  George  Welden  was  offering  his  hand  to 
assist  her  into  his  carriage. 

“Thank  you,  Mr.  Welden,”  she  replied,  coldly,  “but  I  prefer 
walking.” 

“  Will  you  not  oblige  me  by  accepting  part  of  the  seat1?” 
he  said,  deferentially  and  earnestly ;  “  I  am  going  directly  by 
your  house.” 

She  could  no  longer  decline  without  rudeness,  and  so  com¬ 
plied,  but  rather  ungraciously.  She  could  not  but  feel  her 
prejudices  against  Mr.  Welden  melting  under  the  warmth  of 
his  real  kindness ;  and  as  he  carefully  wrapt  the  buffalo  robe 
about  her  feet,  and  drove  slowly,  lest  she  might  be  timid  about 
fast  driving,  she  wished  in  her  heart  that  Willard  could  see  her; 
and  though  she  did  not  care  a  straw  about  riding  in  George 
Welden’s  carriage,  he  would  be  piqued,  she  knew.  When  Mr. 
Welden  spoke  of  him,  it  was  so  kindly  and  generously,  that 
she  could  not  but  remember  how  differently  he  had  always 
spoken  of  him. 

Warm  and  red  shone  the  lights  through  the  homestead  win¬ 
dows  ;  the  supper  table  was  spread,  and  Mrs.  Hulbert  was 
bustling  about,  that  all  might-be  nice  when  Linney  returned. 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


806 

Mr.  Hulbert  put  on  his  spectacles,  snuffed  the  candle,  and 
opened  the  letter,  though  the  wife  declared  she  could  not  have 
the  biscuits  wait  another  minute,  in  proof  of  which  she  con¬ 
tinued,  “  Fill  the  tea,  Malinda.”  The  girl’s  face  glowed  as  she 
obeyed,  for  not  twice  before,  in  as  many  years,  had  the  good 
woman  called  her  Malinda,  and  it  troubled  the  fountain  that 
pride  had  well  nigh  stilled.  In  a  moment,  Mrs.  Hulbert  had 
added  a  dish  of  preserves  to  the  previous  preparations,  and 
Mr.  Welden  was  disburthening  himself  of  furs  and  over¬ 
coats,  in  compliance  with  an  invitation  to  join  the  family  at  the 
table. 

“  Come,  come,  father,”  said  Mrs.  Hulbert,  as  the  rest  were 
seated  ;  but  he  only  snuffed  the  candle,  and  resumed  his  atten¬ 
tion  to  the  letter.  “  Well,  if  you  will  read,”  she  continued, 
with  some  asperity  in  her  tone,  “  do  tell  us  whether  he  is  dead 
or  alive.” 

Mr.  Hulbert  placed  the  candle  between  himself  and  the 
letter,  and  read  aloud,  spelling  his  way,  and  pausing  between 
every  word  :  “  Be  so  kind  as  to  present  my  dutiful  regards  to 
my  mother  ;  and  say  to  Linney,  dear  girl,  that  1  have  so  many 
calls  on  my  time  for  the  few  leisure  moments  I  get  from  study, 
that  I  could  not  write  her  this  month,  though  I  very  much 
wished  to  do  so.  I  shall  hope  to  hear  from  her  as  usual ;  and 
ask  her,  if  you  please,  to  tell  me  if  she  devotes  much  time  to 
the  book  I  gave  her.”  “  And  that  is  all,”  said  Mr.  Hulbert, 
looking  proud  and  pleased,  “he  says  to  you  women  folks” - 

“  Tut,  tut,”  answered  the  wife,  “  that  is  enough,  without  it 
was  better.” 

Linney’s  face  grew  damp  and  pale,  and  George  Welden  bit 
his  lip,  and  made  some  observation,  not  at  all  pertinent,  about 
shooting,  of  which  he  was  very  fond.  The  efforts  to  rally  were 
ineffectual,  all  round  ;  and  after  some  awkward  and  constrained 
conversation  on  commonplace  subjects,  Mr.  Welden  took  leave, 
saying  to  Linney  as  he  did  so,  “  You  are  fond  of  game,  you  say  Vf 

“  Yes,”  she  answered,  though  she  had  not  previously  said 
anything  to  suggest  his  question. 

And  e  added,  “I  will  have  pleasure  in  presenting  the  first 
brace  of  woodcocks  I  can  bring  down.” 


THE  COLLEGIAN’S  MISTAKE. 


307 


Linney  thanked  him  formally,  and,  as  though  she  expected 
the  polite  offer  to  be  forgotten  before  he  reached  home.  He 
prefaced  his  “  Good  evening”  with  a  smile,  that  seemed  to  say, 
“  You  are  incredulous,  but  I  shall  remember  my  promise.” 

“  I  thought,”  said  Mrs.  Hulbert,  when  he  was  gone,  “  that 
young  Welden  was  a  common  simpleton  !” 

“  What  made  you  think  that answered  Linney,  looking  as 
though  the  matron  had  been  grievously  mistaken. 

“  Oh,  I  don’t  know  what  made  me  think  so  ;”  and  in  a  mo¬ 
ment  she  added,  “Yes  I  do,  too  :  what  made  me  say  that?  It 
was  because  Willard  always  called  him  ‘  pumpkin  head,’  and 
all  such  names.” 

“  Humph  !”  said  Linney,  “  I  should  be  sorry  to  see  through 
his  eyes.” 

Mrs.  Hulbert  rose,  stirred  the  fire,  and  wound  the  clock  ; 
this  was  the  hour  she  had  always  said  something  kindly  about 
Willard  ;  now  she  simply  remarked,  “  I  wish  he  had  staid  at 
home  ;”  and,  seating  herself,  she  took  up  her  apron,  as  if  to 
screen  her  eyes  from  the  fire  ;  but  Linney  saw  that  her  heart 
was  sad,  and  came  involuntarily  toward  her,  then  hesitated,  and 
said,  as  if  unaware  of  her  emotion,  “  Don’t  get  up  in  the  morn¬ 
ing  till  I  call  you.”  And  so  they  parted  for  the  night,  each 
feeling  as  she  had  never  felt  before. 

It  was  difficult  for  the  girl  to  resist  the  temptation  of  re¬ 
opening  the  old  letter,  before  she  retired,  though  she  said, 
repeatedly,  “  If  Willard  is  inclined  to  be  such  a  fool,  I  don’t 
care — I  can  live  without  him — and  he  is  not  the  only  man  who 
has  been  to  college,  either.” 

And  with  such  strengthening  of  her  weakness,  she  sought  her 
bed,  with  as  much  alacrity  as  if  there  had  been  no  heaviness  on 
her  heart ;  but  sleep  wrould  not  be  vrooed  in  this  brave  way, 
and  there  had  only  been  an  occasional  restless  forgetfulness, 
when  the  cold,  gray  morning  glanced  through  the  window. 

Mrs.  Hulbert  wras  already  briskly  astir.  “  I  wonder,”  she 
said,  as  she  turned  the  smoking  ham, — “  I  w' onder  how  it  wrould 
do  to  brile  wmodcocks  ?”  Linney  answered  that  she  guessed  it 
would  do  well  enough,  but  that  she  did  n’t  suppose  they  vrould 
ever  have  any  to  be  cooked.  And  so  they  wrere  friends  again. 


308 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


The  irritation  and  pride  which  she  at  first  leaned  on,  gradually 
gave  way,  and  she  found  herself  more  dependent  on  habitual 
hopes  and  habits  of  feeling  than  she  at  first  imagined.  In 
musing  of  him,  she  was  apt  to  forget  that  he  had  not  written 
to  her  ;  or,  if  she  remembered  it,  it  was  to  think  very  leniently 
of  the  omission.  What  did  she  know  about  the  life  he  led,  or 
the  tasks  and  duties  required  of  him  ?  He  would  have  written 
if  he  had  found  opportunity — of  course  he  would.  And  in  this 
mood  she  one  day  indited  for  him  a  long  and  kind  letter,  com¬ 
municating  all  the  trivial  gossip  of  the  neighborhood,  and  con¬ 
cluding  with,  “You  will  be  glad  to  hear  from  me,  I  know, 
though  you  have  not  written  me  as  you  promised.” 

Credulous  child  !  she  had  quite  forgotten  the  familiar  way  in 
which  he  had  called  her  “  dear  girl,”  in  the  letter  to  his  father, 
and  his  careless  mention  of  the  bible,  as  though  the  giving  of 
it  were  not  the  precious  secret  she  herself  had  always  felt  it 
to  be. 

The  nicest  stockings  she  had  knitted  were  taken  from  the 
bundle  designed  for  the  purchase  of  a  new  dress,  and  placed  in 
the  wardrobe  of  Willard’s  room.  He  had  been  away  three 
months  ;  surely  he  would  write  to  her  soon  ;  and  in  two  more, 
at  farthest,  she  would  see  him. 

III. 

It  was  a  rough,  windy  night  in  December  ;  the  stiff,  bare 
boughs  rattled  against  each  other  ;  the  ruffled  cock  made  an 
unnatural  and  untimely  cackle  among  his  silent  mates ;  the 
sheep,  despite  their  woolly  coats,  bleated  piteously  ;  and  some¬ 
times  the  oxen’s  low  sounded  mournfully  across  the  hills.  The 
snow,  which  had  fallen  a  day  or  two  before,  drifted  no  longer 
as  the  wind  went  and  came,  but,  with  a  frozen  crust  shining 
under  the  moon,  lay  hard  and  cold.  Linney  was  in  her  cham¬ 
ber,  a  small,  cheerless  room,  containing  only  a  few  old-fashioned 
articles  of  furniture  ;  a  heap  of  snow  lay  in  the  open  fire-place ; 
the  uncurtained  window  was  white  with  the  fantastic  figures  of 
the  frost,  and  immediately  above  it  a  shelf  was  suspended,  on 
which  were  a  few  dusty  volumes,  together  with  the  copy-books 
which  she  had  used  at  school.  On  this  winter  night,  the  place 


THE  COLLEGIAN’S  MISTAKE. 


309 


was  lonesome  and  cheerless  enough,  and  yet  she  had  been  there 
an  hour  ;  she  was  seated  on  a  low  stool,  beside  her  burned  a 
tallow  candle,  on  the  wooden  chair  on  which  it  stood  lay  the 
bible,  open  where  her  name  was  written,  and  in  her  hands  she 
held  the  dear  letter  he  had  written  at  the  end  of  the  first  month 
of  their  parting.  As  she  read,  a  coming  step  crushed  through 
the  snow,  and  she  hurried  to  the  window,  and  looked  forth,  or 
tried  to  do  so,  for  the  frost  prevented  her  from  seeing  distinctly. 
Mr.  Hulbert  had  been  gone  to  the  village  since  an  hour  before 
night ;  doubtless  he  was  now  coming  home,  and  had  brought, 
perhaps,  news  from  Willard.  She  hastily  placed  the  letter  and 
book  beneath  her  pillow ;  to  say  truth,  it  was  not  the  first  time 
they  had  lain  there  ;  and  this  done,  she  hurried  below,  and  saw 
the  door  closing  on  Mr.  George  Welden. 

The  visitor  bowed  gracefully,  as  though  entering  the  most 
elegant  drawing-room  ;  and  his  sleepy  blue  eyes,  as  they  en 
countered  hers,  had  in  them  a  sparkle  of  pleasure  not  habitual 
to  them,  and  about  the  good-natured  mouth,  as  he  spoke,  there 
was  a  sweetness  which  most  women  would  have  found  winning. 
“  You  see  my  memory  is  less  treacherous  than  you  thought,” 
he  said,  addressing  Linney,  who  stood  blushing  and  smiling 
before  him,  and  at  the  same  time  presenting,  not  a  brace  of 
woodcocks,  but  only  a  common  gray  rabbit. 

“  Why,  Linney  !”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hulbert,  reprovingly,  as 
she  apprehended  the  cause  of  the  laughter,  which  the  girl  turned 
her  face  away  to  conceal. 

“What  funny  red  eyes  it  has,”  she  answered,  ingenuously, 
not  heeding  the  implied  reproof. 

“  I  don’t  know,”  interposed  George  Welden  ;  and,  taking  the 
rabbit  from  her  hands,  he  added,  “  the  fellow  is  too  heavy  for 
you  to  hold.” 

Ordinarily  there  would  be  nothing  interesting  or  provocative 
of  merriment  in  the  dulled  eyes  of  a  dead  rabbit ;  but  some¬ 
how  it  chanced  that  the  sportsman  and  she  to  whom  he  brought 
his  tribute,  found  an  almost  exhaustless  fund  of  speculation  and 
mirth  as  they  stood  together,  turning  the  creature  from  side  to 
side,  examining  his  form  and  the  texture  of  his  fur.  Certainly 
no  one  would  have  supposed  that  either  of  them  had  fright- 


810 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


ened  one  or  more  such  creatures  from  their  paths  on  almost 
every  morning  of  their  lives,  when  they  had  walked  in  the 
fields.  But  the  veriest  trifles  hold  us  spell-bound,  sometimes  ; 
a  single  withered  rose  may  be  sweeter  than  whole  fields  of 
fresh  flowers  ;  and  on  one  occasion,  at  least,  a  harmless  rabbit 
that  had  been  dislodged  from  the  place  where  he  had  burrowed 
under  the  winter  snow,  in  which  the  drops  of  his  life-blood 
were  yet  fresh,  served  for  what  seemed  the  gayest  amusement. 

“  Look  there  !”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hulbert,  as  a  fresh  crimson 
drop  trickled  over  the  neck  and  plashed  on  the  white  apron 
of  Linney  :  “  Oh,  dear  !  and  my  hands,  too  !”  she  said,  holding 
them  up. 

“  It  was  all  my  fault,”  said  Mr.  Welden,  looking  as  if  griev¬ 
ously  annoyed.  Linney’s  cheek  grew  as  red  as  the  spot  in  her 
apron.  It  was  not  so  much  the  words  as  the  tone  of  tender¬ 
ness  with  which  they  were  uttered,  and  the  really  distressing 
look  that  accompanied  them.  Both  felt  it  a  relief  when  Mr. 
Hulbert  entered,  and  the  good  wife’s  attention  was  diverted 
from  them,  to  prepare  the  arm-chair,  and  stir  the  fire. 

“But,  Linney,  you  don’t  know  how  to  cook  it,  do  you?” 
resumed  the  young  man,  with  his  former  self-possession,  and  a 
familiar  manner  he  had  never  used  before. 

“  Why,  I  suppose  we  shall  fry  it.” 

He  laughed,  as  if  the  idea  were  preposterous,  and  said  he 
knew  more  about  the  culinary  art  than  half  the  women,  as  half 
the  men  are  apt  to  say  when  they  have  opportunity  She  did 
not  seem  to  heed  him,  and  he  continued,  “You  must  dine  with 
us  to-morrow  ;  we  are  to  have  one,  too  and  in  a  moment, 
seeing  that  she  did  not  answer,  he  said,  “  Will  you  come  ?” 

She  made  some  vague  reply,  which  her  admirer  construed 
into  an  acceptance.  But  the  truth  is,  she  had  heard  nothing 
that  he  said  ;  and  now,  as  she  sunk  into  a  chair,  her  cheek 
assumed  a  pallor,  and  her  black  eyes,  naturally  brilliant  with 
joyous  feeling,  assumed  a  steadfast  and  earnest  expression, 
which  was  never  quite  forgotten  by  him  who  saw  it.  She  had 
been  listening  to  the  Hulberts,  as  they  talked  of  their  son. 

“  What !”  said  the  mother,  in  a  surprised  whisper,  as  she 
leaned  over  the  shoulder  of  her  husband,  who  answered,  “He 


THE  COLLEGIAN’S  MISTAKE. 


811 


says  nothing  that  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  of ;  the  letter  is 
filled  with  stuff  about  Euclid,  freshmen,  alumni,  and  all  that 
which  we  do  n’t  know  nothing  about ;  besides,  he  wants  me  to 
send  money,  and  tells  me  to  sell  the  hay  if  I  can’t  get  it  with¬ 
out.”  The  old  man  continued,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  “1  expect 
he  has  been  running  me  in  debt — twenty  or  thirty  dollars,  like 
enough.” 

“  Had  he  got  Linney’s  letter  asked  the  mother,  as  if  willing 
to  divert  his  thoughts. 

“  He  received  it  a  week  ago,”  was  replied,  “  but  had  not  yet 
had  time  to  read  it  when  he  wrote.” 

This  it  was  which  brought  the  pallor  to  the  cheek  of  Linney, 
and  the  wild  and  fixed  expression  to  her  eyes. 

That  night,  as  Mrs.  Hulbert  wound  the  clock,  she  said, 
“  Do  you  think  you  could  keep  house,  Linney,  for  a  day  or 
two  1” 

“  Yes — why  V’  she  replied,  looking  more  curiosity  than  she 
spoke.  . . 

“  Oh,  I  do  n’t  know,  child  but  she  quickly  added,  “  yes  I 
do,  too.  May  be  we  will  go  away  in  a  week  or  so,  father 
and  me.” 

“  Is  Willard  sick  1”  she  asked,  her  heart  beating  strongly. 

“  No,  we  don’t  know  that  he  is;”  and  Mrs.  Hulbert  looked 
anxiously  into  the  fire. 

“  Because,”  continued  Linney,  seeing  that  there  was  no  pros¬ 
pect  of  an  explanation,  “  I  thought  it  strange  you  should  go  to 
see  him  when  the  session  will  close  so  soon.”  She  did  not 
venture  to  say,  “When  Willard  is  coming  home  so  soon.” 

But  Mrs.  Hulbert,  who  understood  her  meaning,  replied, 
“  He  is  not  coming  home  ;  he  says  he  shall  have  plenty  of 
business  and  pleasure  for  the  vacation  ;  and,  besides,  he  don’t 
want  to  get  his  mind  in  its  old  trains  of  thought,  he  says.” 

“  Well,”  answered  Linney,  and  in  that  little  word  there  was 
a  bitterness  of  meaning  which  the  longest  sentences  could  hardly 
have  expressed. 

“  I  wonder,”  said  Mrs.  Hulbert,  presently,  “  if  George  has 
nothing  better  to  do  than  hunt  rabbits — the  poor,  harmless 
critters 


312 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“  Such  sports  have  been  relished  by  wiser  men  than  he,”  an¬ 
swered  Linney,  “  and  I  see  no  particular  harm  in  them.” 

“  Nor  I,  as  I  know  of and  Mrs.  Hulbert  grew  thoughtful 
and  silent  again. 

So  for  an  hour  the  two  women  sat  together.  The  effect  of 
Willard’s  letter  was  reflected  in  the  minds  of  both ;  and  how 
differently,  in  the  estimate  formed  by  each  of  George. 

Before  she  retired  that  night,  Linney  visited  Willard’s  room, 
and,  taking  from  the  drawer  the  stockings  designed  for  him, 
replaced  them  with  the  bundle  prepared  for  market.  Then, 
removing  the  pillow,  she  took  the  letter  and  the  Bible  and 
placed  them  on  the  shelf  above  the  window.  By  such  pro¬ 
cesses  are  shaped  destinies. 

The  following  day,  while  preparations  for  Mrs.  Hulbert’s 
visit  to  the  town  where  the  college  was  were  going  briskly  for¬ 
ward,  George  Welden  made  his  appearance,  looking  fresh,  and 
smiling,  and  happy.  “  I  am  come  to  carry  Linney  home  with 
me  to  dine,”  he  said,  by  way  of  apology  to  Mrs.  Hulbert,  who, 
perhaps,  looked  something  of  the  astonishment  she  felt.  “  And,” 
he  added,  turning  to  the  girl,  “  mother  sends  her  compliments, 
and  says  you  must  not  disappoint  her.  I  have  myself  super¬ 
intended  the  cooking  of  the  rabbit.” 

Linney  was  faltering  some  excuse,  when  Mrs.  Hulbert  inter¬ 
posed,  with  an  intimation  that  she  could  go  just  as  well  as  not, 
if  she  chose.  The  horse  and  sleigh  waited  at  the  door,  the 
young  man  seriously  desired  her  company,  and  Mrs.  Hulbert 
evidently  favored  his  inclinations. 

“  But  I  am  not  ready,”  urged  Linney,  surveying  her  dress 
with  evident  concern,  and  well  aware  that  she  possessed  nothing 
in  which  she  would  appear  to  better  advantage. 

“  It  is  strange,”  said  Mrs.  Hulbert,  soliloquizing,  “how  par¬ 
ticular  girls  are  now-a-days.  That  plaided  flannel  of  Linney’s 
I  could  have  worn  to  a  wedding  in  my  day.” 

“  And  Linney  can,  too,  if  she  has  a  mind  to,”  replied  George, 
laughing,  and  looking  with  admiration  on  the  plaids  of  green, 
and  red,  and  blue,  so  smoothly  ironed.  In  truth,  it  became  the 
rustic  girl  wonderfully  well  •  and  when  she  had  tied  on  the 


THE  COLLEGIAN’S  MISTAKE. 


313 


white  frilled  apron,  and  smoothed  her  chestnut  curls  a  little, 
nothing  was  needed  to  complete  her  toilet. 

She  felt  a  tremulous  shrinking  when,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  she  found  herself  in  an  elegantly-furnished  apartment ;  but 
Mrs.  Welden,  a  sweet,  motherly  lady  of  sixty,  soon  put  her 
quite  at  ease,  for  Linney  was  a  sunshiny  and  good-tempered  girl, 
little  disposed  to  quarrel  with  circumstances.  If  there  were  a 
little  condescension  in  the  lady’s  cordiality,  a  little  patronage 
in  the  equality  she  assumed,  she  did  not  stop  to  think  of  it, 
and  Mrs.  Welden’s  heart  was  soon  won  entirely  by  her  artless 
and  joyous  manner.  No  wonder  they  were  mutually  pleased; 
that  each  found  in  the  other  what  she  herself  lacked — the  one, 
freshness,  and  sunshine,  and  hope ;  and  the  other,  experience, 
wisdom,  and  refinement. 

•  George,  habitually  good-natured,  indolent,  careless,  was  on 
that  day  restless,  almost  fietful.  Now  he  boxed  the  ears  of 
some  favorite  hunter,  for  caressing  his  hand  too  familiarly  ;  now 
he  found  fault  with  the  fire,  which  was  either  too  hot  or  too  cold ; 
and  now  he  was  irritated  that  Linney  should  be  monopolized, 
and,  apparently,  with  so  much  willingness  on  her  part,  by  even 
his  mother.  Sometimes  he  tried  to  be  amiable,  and  he  more 
than  once  ventured  on  a  compliment  to  Linney,  but  she  neither 
blushed  nor  looked  down,  but  only  laughed,  and  replied  in  the 
same  vein,  though  her  tone  and  manner  said  very  plainly  there 
was  little  meaning  in  her  words.  He  felt  that  he  had  no 
power  over  her,  and  consequently  became  vexed  with  himself 
more  and  more. 

So  pleased  and  delighted  was  Linney,  that  she  remained  long 
after  dinner ;  and  the  great  cold  moon  made  the  snow  sparkle 
again  as  they  drove  homeward. 

“  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  home  you  have  !”  she  said,  looking 
back  admiringly,  where  the  many  lights  of  the  great  house 
streamed  across  the  snow. 

“Would  you  like  to  live  there  always?”  asked  George, 
tightening  the  rein. 

“  Oh,  above  all  things  !”  she  answered,  ingenuously. 

And  the  whip  was  brought  in  requisition,  and  Brock  suffered 

to  go  forward  as  fast  as  he  would. 

14 


314 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“  How  kind  of  you,”  said  Linney,  patting  the  horse’s  neck, 
when  they  alighted  at  the  door,  “  to  bring  us  home  so  soon.” 
And  she  continued,  turning  to  George,  “  I  wish  you  were  home, 
too.” 

The  young  man  bit  his  lip,  and  resumed  his  seat  in  the  sleigh. 
He  had  hoped  for  an  invitation  to  go  in. 

Mrs.  Hulbert  opened  the  door,  and  George  drew  in  the  rein 
to  say,  “Tell  Willard,  if  you  please,  I  shall  take  as  good  care 
of  Linney  as  he  would  himself.” 

Mrs.  Hulbert  thanked  him,  and  Linney  thought,  “  I  am  glad 
you  happened  to  say  that — it  will  be  so  provoking  to  Willard.” 
But  neither  understood  that  George  remembered  the  slights  he 
had  formerly  received,  and  that  he  could  not  now  deny  himself 
the  pleasure  of  such  a  taunt.  If  Willard  had  been  away  chop¬ 
ping  wood  for  a  month,  Mr.  George  Welden  would  have  been 
silent ;  but  it  needed  little  sagacity  to  perceive,  that  though 
pique  had  at  first  drawn  these  young  persons  together,  there 
was  danger  that  the  result  would  be  very  different  from  any 
they  themselves  expected.  Already,  on  the  part  of  George, 
there  was  an  awakening  affection,  as  trifles  have  indicated, 
which  he  might  find  it  very  difficult  ever  to  repress.  In  a 
secluded  neighborhood,  where  neither  was  likely  to  find  much 
companionship,  it  was  perfectly  natural,  that  having  once  met, 
they  should  meet  again,  and  that,  time  and  circumstances 
favoring,  the  young  man  should  become  a  wooer,  especially 
when  he  was  free  from  ambition,  and  altogether  indifferent  as 
to  what  others  should  think  of  the  mistress  of  his  house  and 
heart,  so  that  she  pleased  himself.  It  was  natural,  too,  that  a 
humble  rustic  girl  should  not  be  wholly  averse  to  the  wooing, 
especially  when  the  wooer  was  handsome  and  the  fortune 
ample  ;  and,  above  all,  when  she  could  rise  so  pre-eminently 
above  a  lover  who  had  discarded  her. 

And  the  case  of  Willard  is  common  enough,  too,  perhaps. 
Finding  himself  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  in  a  circle  some¬ 
what  superior  in  cultivation  and  refinement  to  that  in  which  his 
old  companion  had  moved — with  girls  who  perhaps  had  some 
prospects  of  fortune,  and  who  certainly  were  more  at  home  in 
the  world  than  she  to  whom  he  had  so  sincerely  pledged  his 


THE  COLLEGIAN’S  MISTAKE. 


815 


affections,  in  their  first  development,  before  he  learned  that  they 
should  be  subjected  to  the  direction  of  tact,  lighting  the  way  for 
his  advancement  in  society,  he  set  his  foot  upon  her — not  that  he 
despised  her,  so  much  as  that  he  was  blinded  by  the  brilliancy 
of  new  hopes,  and  really  did  not  see  nor  think  about  her 
at  all. 

Time  taught  them  both  the  sincerity  of  that  young  and  irre¬ 
trievably-slighted  love.  But,  though  Willard  was  for  a  short 
time  inflated  with  vanity,  and  warped  from  his  true  nature,  he 
possessed  enough  of  genuine  manhood  to  regain  at  length  a  fit 
estimation  of  his  forgotten  duties,  of  the  worth  of  such  a  character 
as  Linney’s,  and  of  the  feelings  she  had  cherished  for  him,  until 
they  were  alienated  by  his  own  neglect.  He  could  learn,  or 
would  learn,  only  by  experience,  that  the  guests  of  ambition 
and  of  love  must  be  forever  distinct,  or  fruitless  of  rewards  to 
satisfy  either  the  mind  or  the  heart. 

When  five  years  were  gone,  and  he  returned  from  college, 
no  dear  one  met  him  with  words  sweeter  than  any  triumphs  ; 
Linney  had  been  three  years  the  wife  of  George  Welden,  and 
one,  the  mother  of  “  the  sweetest  little  cherub,”  Mrs.  Hulbert 
said,  “in  all  the  world.”  She  was  living  in  the  family  mansion 
of  the  Weldens — one  of  the  finest  in  the  vicinity  of  Clover- 
nook — its  mistress,  and  was  one  of  the  most  admired  as  well 
as  most  beloved  of  all  the  ladies  in  the  neighborhood. 

“I  wish,  mother,”  said  Willard,  one  morning,  “you  would 
fit  up  the  little  room  that  used  to  be  Linney’s,  for  my  study.” 
He  had  commenced  a  course  of  reading  in  the  law,  and  was  to 
pursue  it,  for  the  most  part,  at  home,  where,  whatever  haunting 
memories  there  might  be,  there  would  be  little  in  the  present 
to  distract  his  attention  from  the  frigid  and  selfish  philosophy 
of  expediency,  which  underlies  all  the  learning  and  practice  of 
that  profession.  So  the  window  was  opened,  and  the  cobwebs 
swept  down  ;  and  this,  with  the  addition  of  a  chair  and  a  table 
to  the  furniture,  was  all  that  was  to  be  done.  With  folded 
arms  and  thoughtful  brow,  the  disappointed  student  superin¬ 
tended  these  little  preparations,  and  when  all  was  completed, 
he  unlocked  a  small  desk,  and  took  from  it  two  old  and  word 
letters,  which  would  scarcely  bear  unfolding  ;  read  and  re-read 


316 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


them,  wiping  his  eyes  once  or  twice  as  he  did  so ;  carefully 
folded  them,  and,  stepping  on  a  chair,  took  from  the  shelf  above 
the  window  a  book,  and  was  slipping  the  letters  between  its 
leaves,  when  his  attention  was  suddenly  arrested  by  the  falling 
of  his  own  first  letter  to  Linney  to  the  floor — from  the  book 
in  which  was  written,  in  his  own  boyish  hand,  “  Malinda  Hul- 
bert.”  Book  and  letter  had  been  forgotten,  and  the  dust  of 
years  had  gathered  over  them. 

Willard  is  a  bachelor  to  this  day;  and  that  homely  room, 
once  Linney’s,  has  a  charm  for  him  which  much  finer  ones  have 
never  possessed.  When  last  I  was  out  at  Clovernook  I  drank 
tea  with  good  old  Mrs.  Hulbert,  and  the  squire  sat  with  us  in 
the  early  evening  in  the  modest  porch  of  the  farm-house.  As 
I  recalled  to  the  mother  some  reminiscences  of  my  childhood, 
with  which  she  was  familiar,  he  left  us,  walking  away  silently, 
and  with  an  air  of  melancholy.  I  could  not  help  but  say,  “  How 
changed  !” 

“  I  do  n’t  know,”  she  answered  ;  but,  after  a  moment’s  silence, 
“Yes,  I  do — poor  Willard,  he  will  never  forget  little  Linney !” 

—  Sometimes,  as  he  lingers  in  the  autumn  under  the  old 
grape-vine  in  the  meadow,  where  they  recounted  to  each  other 
such  dreams  as  arose  in  childhood,  he  sees  her  riding  with 
George  Welden  in  the  beautiful  coach  from  which  he  thought 
to  look  contemptuous  triumph  on  his  rival. 


THE  DIFFERENCE,  AND  WHAT  MADE  IT? 


317 


THE  DIFFERENCE,  AND  WHAT  MADE  IT? 

I, 

When  I  made  my  first  call  on  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robinson,  they 
had  been  married  about  a  year.  Theirs  had  been  what  is 
termed  a  love-match  :  the  bride,  who  was  an  heiress  in  a  small 
way,  having  stolen  from  the  comfortable  and  ample  roof  of  her 
father  one  tempestuous  night,  and  taken,  in  the  presence  of  the 
priest  and  two  or  three  witnesses,  for  better  or  for  worse,  John 
Robinson,  to  cherish  and  love,  in  health  and  sickness,  thence¬ 
forward. 

Matilda  Moore,  previously  to  becoming  Mrs.  Robinson,  was 
a  tall,  slender,  fair-faced  woman,  with  a  passionate  vein  in  her 
nature,  which,  as  she  was  much  indulged  and  petted,  had 
scarcely  been  thoroughly  aroused.  White  teeth,  flaxen  curls, 
rosy  cheeks,  and  an  amiable  smile,  with  an  unexceptionable 
toilette,  and  graceful  manners,  gave  her  the  reputation  of  a 
beauty  with  many,  though  the  few  might  have  found  in  the 
wide,  full  chin,  and  hanging  lip,  as  in  the  general  cast  of  her 
countenance,  a  want  of  refinement  and  intellectuality.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  she  had  passed  through  the  regular  training  of  board¬ 
ing-schools,  pianists,  and  dancing-masters,  and  in  the  circle  which 
her  father’s  position,  as  a  well-to-do  lumber-merchant,  com¬ 
manded,  was  quite  a  belle. 

In  the  valley  lying  between  the  city,  and  the  hill-country 
wherein  Clovernook  nestles  itself,  stands  a  great  irregular 
building,  known  as  the  Columbia  House.  In  days  gone  by,  it 
was  a  very  popular  resort  of  persons  and  parties  in  quest  of 
recreation.  But  the  fashion  of  this  world  passeth  away,  and 
at  the  time  I  speak  of  it  was  fallen  somewhat  from  its  genteel 
pretensions,  the  once  pretty  pleasure-grounds  were  turned  into 


818 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


yards  for  cattle  and  swine,  the  piazzas  had  been  boxed  into 
dormitories  for  drovers,  and  the  slender  ornamental  railing 
which  once  encompassed  the  house  was  quite  broken  away  by 
reason  of  having  been  used  as  hitching-posts  for  the  fast  trotters 
of  jockeys,  whose  partiality  for  the  Columbia  House  was  evinced 
by  the  fact  that  from  ten  to  twenty  slender-wheeled  buggies  and 
high-headed  horses  might  be  seen,  any  summer  afternoon,  hem¬ 
ming  it  in.  But  this  is  a  digression,  and  what  the  house  is,  or 
was,  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  story,  farther  than  that  it 
chanced  to  be  here,  at  a  ball  given  in  celebration  of  some  po¬ 
litical  triumph,  that  the  first  meeting  of  Mr.  John  Robinson 
and  Miss  Matilda  Moore  took  place. 

“  A  pretty  girl,  I’ll  swear,  you  just  danced  with,”  said  Mr. 
Robinson  to  Uncle  Jo,  as  everybody  called  the  well-known 
dancing-master :  tossing  off,  as  he  spoke,  a  glass  of  something 
stronger  than  it  should  have  been  under  the  circumstances,  for 
he  was  that  night  the  gallant  of  as  pretty  a  country  girl  as  one 
may  pick  from  the  meeting-house  of  a  summer  morning. 

“  She  dances  with  infinite  grace,  Uncle  Jo.  Won’t  you  take 
another  glass  ?  You  haven’t  moistened  your  lips,  man.” 

Could  Uncle  Jo  refuse  ?  As  he  “  tossed  the  rosy,”  Mr.  Ro¬ 
binson  continued,  “  Is  there  a  better  dressed  lady  in  the  saloon  ?” 
And,  as  if  some  one  dissented,  he  quickly  added,  “Wo,  siree /” 
Must  have  the  dimes,  eh,  Uncle  Jo?  won’t  you  produce  me?” 

Shortly  after  this  one-sided  conversation,  Uncle  Jo  appeared 
in  the  saloon,  and  made  his  way,  with  an  indolent  sort  of 
saunter,  as  of  one  conscious  of  welcome  anywhere,  toward  the 
nook  wherein  Miss  Moore  had  seated  herself,  for  a  little  respite, 
and  the  refreshing  influence  of  some  light  gossip  with  her  cousin 
Kate.  At  his  side  was  Mr.  Robinson. 

Hardly  had  the  lady  time  for  the  whisper  behind  her  fan, 
“Isn’t  he  handsome?”  when  Uncle  Jo  presented  him  as  Mr. 

John  Robinson,  of - ,  son  of  Hon.  Judge  Robinson  ;  and 

she  hastened  to  tuck  away  the  white  lace  that  hung  in  a  series 
of  short  skirts  over  her  pink-satin  petticoat,  to  make  room  by 
her  side  for  the  splendid  and  dashing  son  of  the  judge. 

“  Excuse  me,  Tild,”  said  the  cousin,  rising,  with  a  meaning 
look,  that  indicated,  “  Do  as  much  for  me  some  time and 


THE  DIFFERENCE,  AND  WHAT  MADE  IT? 


819 


linking  her  arm  through  that  of  Uncle  Jo,  she  skipped  gayly 
away  for  a  promenade,  rallying  her  captive  coquettishly  on  not 
giving  himself  exclusively  to  one,  if  he  did  not  expect  all  the 
ladies  to  claim  his  service. 

“  Gad,  Uncle  Jo,”  said  Mr.  Robinson,  toward  the  dawn  of 

the  morning,  “  I’ll  remember  you  when  1  fall  heir  to  the - 

property.  You  have  made  me  a  happy  and  an  envied  man 
to-night.” 

“  I  congratulate  you,”  said  the  dancing-master,  who  cared  not 
a  whit  when  young  ladies  fell  in  love,  nor  with  whom;  “but 
remember,  that  belles  may  coquette  on  occasion.  Do  you  see 
anything  of  that  ?”  He  pointed  to  Miss  Moore,  who  was  at 
the  moment  looking  tenderly  in  the  face  of  a  very  fat  man  with 
very  black  whiskers,  luxuriant  and  uncropped,  reproaching  him 
in  a  way  that  might  or  might  not  have  meaning  in  it,  for  hav¬ 
ing  deserted  her  wantonly  and  unprovokedly  a  whole  evening, 
which  seemed  to  her  interminable. 

“  Is  the  young  woman  a  fool,  that  she  is  going  to  show  a 
whole  ball-room  which  way  her  cattle  run?  No,  sir!  But 
I’ll  bet  you  what  you  dare,  or  I’ll  play  three  games  of  eucre 
with  you,  and  stake  my  country  property,  that  Miss  Matilda 
Moore  will  be  Mrs.  Matilda  somebody  else  before  this  night 
twelvemonth.” 

“  Very  likely,”  said  Uncle  Jo,  quietly  ;  and  the  two  gentle¬ 
men  retired  for  a  social  glass  at  parting. 

I  need  sav  no  more  of  Mr.  Robinson,  I  think.  The  reader 
may  form  his  own  idea  of  what  sort  of  young  men  drink  with 
the  dancing-master,  boast  of  property  which  is  still  their  fa¬ 
ther’s  and  of  conquests  of  ladies  who  have  but  chanced  to  chat 
with  them  half  an  hour. 

Thereafter  Mr.  Robinson  had,  to  use  his  own  characteristic 
phrase,  a  devilish  sight  of  business  in  town.  He  usually  drove 
his  father’s,  horse  and  chaise,  which  he  described  as  “  mine,” 
and,  in  company  with  the  rich  and  accomplished  Miss  Moore, 
went  oft'  to  the  fashionable  resorts  for  ices,  strawberries,  and 
other  such  delicacies,  which  have  been,  longer  than  I  can  remem¬ 
ber,  the  “  food  of  love.”  At  all  balls,  races,  and  pic-nics,  too, 
they  were  the  most  dashing  and  noticeable  couple. 


320 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Miss  Moore  was  proud  of  being  escorted  by  Mr.  Robinson, 
son  of  the  Judge,  and  Mr.  Robinson  of  attending  the  handsome 
and  wealthy  Miss  Matilda.  For  a  time  all  went  merry,  but 
“  the  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth.” 

II. 

“  Where  is  Tildy  to-night  1  Just  shove  the  lamp  this  way, 
my  dear,”  said  Mr.  Moore,  the  lumber-merchant,  unbuttoning 
his  vest,  and  extending  his  rough  boots  over  the  elaborately 
carved  foot  of  the  tea-table.  Mrs.  Moore  did  as  directed,  and, 
as  she  passed  the  tea,  asked  her  husband  if  he  thought  there 
•were  really  so  much  danger  in  the  camphine.  Mr.  Moore 
opened  the  evening  paper,  and,  glancing  over  the  advertise¬ 
ments,  said,  after  a  minute,  and  in  a  tone  which  indicated  a 
ruffled  temper,  “  How  much  do  you  mean  ?” 

“  Why,  you  know,”  replied  the  wife,  blandly,  and  affecting 
not  to  see  his  ill-humor,  “a  good  many  people  are  afraid  to 
burn  it,  and  almost  every  day  we  read  of  accidents  from  it.” 

“  Then,”  said  Mr.  Moore,  in  no  milder  tone,  “  I  should  think 
there  was  danger.” 

“Well,  I  suppose  there  is  danger;  but  one  must  talk,  or 
one  ’ll  not  say  anything,”  said  Mrs.  Moore,  half  deprecatingly 
and  half  in  justification. 

“  So  it  seems.”  And  Mr.  Moore  was  apparently  absorbed 
in  the  paper,  sipping  carelessly  now  and  then  of  his  tea. 

“You  don’t  seem  to  eat,”  suggested  Mrs.  Moore,  putting 
more  than  usual  tenderness  in  her  voice. 

“  If  1  do  n’t  seem  to,  I  suppose  I  do  n’t.” 

“  Won’t  you  try  a  little  of  the  honey  ?  Just  see  how  white 
and  clear  it  is  !”  And  Mrs.  Moore  held  up  the  ladle,  that  her 
husband  might  behold  and  admire  ;  but  he  neither  looked  up, 
nor  made  any  reply. 

For  a  moment  she  continued  to  nibble  her  bread  in  offended 
silence.  She  knew  right  well  she  had  vexed  him,  by  not 
replying  directly  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  Matilda;  and,  like 
the  faithful,  loving  wife  she  was,  she  resolved  to  make  amends, 
and  by  way  of  bringing  the  subject  naturally  about,  asked  the 


THE  DIFFERENCE,  AND  WHAT  MADE  IT? 


S21 


hour.  Mr.  Moore  took  the  repeater  from  his  pocket,  and 
turned  the  face  toward  her,  without  speaking.  Had  he  spoken 
one  word,  or  even  looked  up,  she  would  have  said  it  was  time 
for  Tildy  to  come  ;  but  under  such  painfully  repelling  circum¬ 
stances,  she  could  not  go  on  ;  she  ceased  even  to  nibble  the 
crust,  sat  a  moment  in  silence,  and  then,  hastily  removing  her 
chair,  left  the  table,  and  in  the  solitude  of  her  own  chamber, 
wept :  not  “  a  few  tears,  brief  and  soon  dried  ” — no,  not  so 
were  these  many  wrongs  and  slights  and  silent  sufferings  to  be 
appeased — she  had  a  regular,  sobbing,  choking  cry — such  as 
have  relieved  all  similar  feelings  since  husbands  became  petu¬ 
lant,  and  wives  first  had  “  their  feelings  hurt.” 

Mr.  Moore  saw,  though  he  affected  not  to  see,  how  he  had 
changed  the  lady’s  mood,  and  he  felt  some  misgivings,  though 
he  affected  not  to  feel  any.  He  was  irritated  to  a  most  un¬ 
happy  degree,  vexed  with  his  wife,  and  vexed  with  himself — 
first,  for  having  been  in  ill-humor  with  her ;  and  next,  for 
having  refused  to  meet  her  repeated  overtures,  as  he  should 
have  done.  He  was  half  resolved  to  follow  her,  and  say, 
“Jemima,  my  dear  wife,  I  was  wrong  ;  come  down,  and  let  us 
eat  our  supper,  which  you  have  been  at  such  pains  to  prepare, 
as  though  this  little  recounter  had  not  chanced.”  But  he  was 
proud,  as  well  as  passionate,  and  though  he  wished  it  were  done, 
he  would  not  do  it. 

Mrs.  Moore  was  accustomed  to  obey  his  slightest  wishes, 
though  unexpressed  ;  and  the  little  stratagem  she  used  in  talk¬ 
ing  about  camphine,  when  he  asked  about  Tildy,  was  harmless, 
and  originated,  in  fact,  in  love  ;  for  she  well  knew  he  would  be 
angry  if  she  said  “  She  is  out  in  the  country,  with  Mr.  Robin¬ 
son  ;”  and  therefore  she  meant  to  divert  his  attention  from  the 
subject,  though  she  should  have  known  she  was  thereby  trea¬ 
suring  wrath  against  the  day  of  wrath.  In  her  evasion  he  was 
sufficiently  answered,  and,  as  his  indignation  must  be  poured 
out  somewhere,  he  resolved  that  Mr.  Robinson,  whose  character 
he  thoroughly  disliked,  should  receive  it.  So,  to  wile  away  the 
time,  he  seated  himself  in  the  parlor,  and,  taking  up  an  old 
English  Annual,  read  poems  and  love-stories,  accounts  of  ship¬ 
wrecks,  and  treatises  on  the  mind,  with  the  same  avidity.  It 

14* 


322 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


grew  late,  and  later — midnight,  one  o’clock,  two  o’clock — but 
he  was  neither  to  be  wearied  nor  softened  at  all ;  and  at  length 
three  o’clock  came,  and  Mr.  Robinson  with  it.  I  need  not  de¬ 
scribe  the  scene  :  Mr.  Robinson  did  not  come  again. 

Of  course,  Mr.  Moore  became  at  once  the  most  unnatural 
and  tyrannical  of  fathers  ;  but  Miss  Moore  had  spirit  as  wTell 
as  her  father,  and  was  not  to  be  so  thwarted.  Violent  opposi¬ 
tion  tends  alw?ays  to  the  growth  of  whatever  is  opposed ;  and 
the  young  lady’s  predilection  for  Mr.  Robinson  was  speedily 
strengthened  into  w:hat  she  at  least  believed  to  be  love.  Secret 
meetings  wrere  contrived  and  effected,  during  wffiich  the  despair 
of  the  young  man,  his  unalterable  devotion,  and  her  own  soft¬ 
ened,  it  may  be  slightly  perverse  heart,  wmrked  together  for 
the  establishment  of  a  decree  of  fate,  and  on  a  tempestuous 
night,  as  before  intimated,  Miss  Matilda  Moore  became  Mrs. 
John  Robinson,  and,  with  her  husband,  took  up  her  abode  at 
one  of  the  most  fashionable  and  expensive  hotels  of  the  city — 
after  the  usual  bridal  tours,  receptions,  parties,  &c. 

The  disobedience  of  the  lady  not  only  cut  her  off  from  any 
marriage  portion,  but  from  any  prospects  in  that  way,  and  the 
country  property  of  the  young  man  was  not  available.  “Why 
do  n’t  you  make  it  so  by  exchange  or  sale  V'  urged  the  wife  ; 
and  the  truth  wras  forced  at  last — the  country  property  was  his 
only  by  a  possible  and  remote  contingency. 

Judge  Robinson  and  his  good  wdfe  were  pleased  with  the 
marriage  of  their  son  with  the  heiress,  for  they  both  loved 
money,  though,  as  is  often  the  case  with  persons  with  such 
affections,  they  never  had  much  about  them.  They  had  begun 
the  world  with  nothing  but  their  hands  and  hearts,  and,  with 
patient  industry  and  perseverance,  had  accumulated  enough  to 
make  them  rich,  in  their  own  estimation  and  in  that  of  their 
neighbors. 

On  the  occasion  of  their  son’s  nuptials,  they  had  bestowred 
on  him  five  hundred  dollars — a  sum  that  seemed  to  them  suffi¬ 
cient  for  an  entrance  into  business,  and  for  making  all  house¬ 
keeping  arrangements.  They  also  believed  that  the  wife’s 
father  would  soon  become  reconciled  to  the  union,  and  settle  on 
the  refractory  daughter  the  handsome  portion  which  she  had  a 


THE  DIFFERENCE,  AND  WHAT  MADE  IT. 


823 


right  to  look  for.  In  this  particular  they  were  mistaken,  as  well 
as  in  the  prudent  foresight  and  frugal  management  they  had 
calculated  upon  in  their  children. 

Taking  from  five  hundred  dollars  continually  with  one  hand, 
and  adding  nothing  thereto  with  the  other,  will  in  the  course 
of  time  diminish  the  sum  ;  and  of  this  fact  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robin¬ 
son  became  gradually  aware,  as  indeed  they  well  might,  when, 
before  the  close  of  the  first  year,  a  new  claimant  for  protection 
lifted  its  arms  toward  them  from  the  cradle,  and  the  last  penny 
was  gone,  and  they  had  incurred  obligations  by  value  received 
to  an  extent  which  they  had  no  means  of  meeting. 

III. 

Judge  Robinson  had  become  discouraged  from  any  further 
efforts  to  assist  his  improvident  children ;  but  the  little  grand¬ 
child  softened  his  heart  somewhat,  and  the  appeal  to  his  sym¬ 
pathy  and  aid  became  irresistible,  when,  one  gusty  March 
morning,  as  he  sat  by  his  ample  hearth  and  read  a  political 
essay  by  a  favorite  senator,  to  his  wife,  who  meantime  baked 
custard  pies  by  the  glowing  wood  coals,  the  daughter-in-law 
entered,  bearing  the  “  precious  darling”  in  her  arms. 

“And  where  is  John'?”  inquired  the  parents,  when  the  bon¬ 
nets,  cloaks,  shawls,  &c.,  had  been  laid  on  the  bureau,  and  the 
baby  called  a  pretty  little  doll,  and  kissed,  time  and  again,  the 
while  it  opened  its  dewy  blue  eyes  and  stretched  out  its  chubby 
arms  in  terror  and  wonder,  and  the  mother  said,  “  Don’t  the 
baby  know  what  to  make  of  grandpa  and  grandma,  and  every- 
tincj  f”  in  the  tenderest  falsetto  imaginable. 

But  before  Matilda  could  answer,  the  sturdy  strokes  of  the 
axe  sounded  from  the  wood-pile,  and,  a  moment  after,  John  en¬ 
tered,  bearing  in  his  arms  a  quantity  of  freshly  split  sticks. 

“  Did  you  call  the  boy  to  take  care  of  your  horse  1”  asked 
the  judge;  and  turning  to  his  wife,  he  continued,  “  Caty,  can’t 
you  get  your  spider  out  of  the  corner'?  It  keeps  back  the 
warmth  so.” 

John  replied  that  he  was  boy  enough  himself,  and  had  cared 
for  his  own  horse.  John  was  politic,  and  suspected  these  little 


324 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


signs  of  neither  forgetting  how  to  work,  nor  of  disdaining  it, 
would  give  his  father  pleasure.  In  this  he  was  not  mistaken, 
as  he  knew,  by  the  request  for  the  removal  of  the  spider  that 
he  might  enjoy  the  heat. 

“  Now7,  is  n’t  that  just  like  the  inconsideration  of  men  ?”  said 
Mrs.  Robinson,  appealing  to  Matilda,  as  she  turned  the  handle 
of  the  spider  aside  ;  “  or  have  n’t  you  been  married  long  enough 
to  larn  that  they  think  a  woman  can  do  anything  and  every¬ 
thing,  wuthout  either  time  or  chance?  Mr.  Robinson,  I  a’n’t 
going  to  do  no  sich  a  thing.  I’ve  got  a  good  custard  pie  in 
here,  and  I  sha’n’t  spile  it  by  taking  the  spider  off  the  coals, 
when  it’s  half  baked.” 

This  w'as  said  with  the  utmost  good  nature,  for  Mrs.  Caty 
Robinson  loved  her  husband,  and  thought,  as  was  right  and 
proper,  that  he  was  a  little  cleverer  than  most  men;  but  her 
devotion  was  not  of  a  sort  to  induce  the  removal  of  the  spider 
at  his  suggestion,  spoil  her  custard,  and  then  pout  half  a  day 
at  the  misfortune. 

When  the  custard  was  baked,  the  good  old  lady  held  it  up  in 
triumph.  A  wrhite  linen  towel,  she  herself  had  spun  and  wToven, 
prevented  the  dish  from  burning  her  hands,  while  she  advised 
Matilda  to  take  a  lesson  from  her  old  mother  and  begin  right, 
not  humoring  John  in  all  his  whims,  but  always  to  use  her  own 
wit  when  she  knew  she  vras  in  the  right :  urging,  that  in  this 
particular  instance,  she  had,  as  fruit  of  her  prudence,  thebeauti- 
fulest  pie  she  ever  see,  while  if  she  had  minded  Robinson,  she 
wTould  have  had  a  batch  that  nobody  could  eat,  and  that  would 
have  aggravated  her  whenever  she  thought  of  it. 

“Well,  well,  mother,”  said  the  judge,  as  she  brushed  the 
ashes  from  the  corner  with  the  wing  of  a  turkey,  “your  judg¬ 
ment  is  generally  pretty  correct ;  and  while  your  pie  baked,  I 
cooked  up  a  little  plan  which  I  want  seasoned  with  your 
opinion.” 

It  happened,  as  is  often  the  case  with  well-to-do  farmers,  that 
Judge  Robinson  had  on  an  obscure  nook  of  his  handsome  es¬ 
tate  an  old  house.  He  had  formerly  dwelt  in  it  himself;  but 
since  his  more  affluent  days,  and  the  building  of  a  more  com¬ 
modious  residence,  it  had  been  let  to  a  tenant,  with  a  quantity 


THE  DIFFERENCE,  AND  WHAT  MADE  IT. 


325 


of  land.  It  was  an  old-fasliioned,  irregular  sort  of  building, 
with  mossy  roof,  steep  gables,  whitewashed  walls,  &c.  Never¬ 
theless,  it  was  a  comfortable-looking  tenement,  with  orchard, 
barn,  crib,  smoke-house,  and  other  like  conveniences.  The  plan 
which  he  bad  now  cooked  up  was,  to  renovate  the  old  house 
a  little,  for  the  occupancy  of  John  and  Matilda.  As  much 
ground  as  he  could  cultivate  was  placed  at  the  young  man’s 
disposal  :  a  garden,  in  which  currant  bushes,  strawberries, 
horse-radish  and  asparagus  were  beginning  to  sprout,  with  a 
cow,  two  horses,  and  the  necessary  agricultural  implements. 

This  kind  of  assistance — the  means  of  helping  themselves — 
was  not  precisely  the  kind  they  had  hoped  for.  But  “  beggars 
must  not  be  choosers,”  said  Mrs.  John  Robinson,  disposed, 
woman-like,  to  make  the  best  of  the  best;  and,  in  truth,  as  she 
thought  more  about  the  plan,  she  began  to  like  it :  it  would  be 
so  delightful  to  have  the  garden,  and  to  learn  the  art  of  butter¬ 
making,  and  all  the  other  mysteries  of  country  life.  Then,  too, 
the  baby  would  have  a  nice  green  yard  to  play  in — the  idea 
was  really  charming. 

Mr.  John  Robinson  soon  after  told  his  friends  that  he  should 
remove  to  his  country  property  for  the  summer,  that  the  health 
of  his  family  required  it,  and  that  he  proposed  to  take  a  house 
in  town  another  winter  :  a  hotel  was  a  miserable  apology  for  a 
home,  which  he  continued  to  describe  with  the  richest  and  most 
peculiar  selection  of  adjectives. 

Preliminaries  arranged,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Robinson  re¬ 
moved  to  their  country  seat;  in  other  words,  they  betook  them¬ 
selves,  with  their  baby,  a  very  excellent  trunk  (which  was  Mrs. 
Robinson’s),  and  a  very  poor  old  one  (which  was  Mr.  Robin¬ 
son’s),  to  the  ancient  tenant-house  of  Mr.  Robinson — because,  in 
brief,  they  could  not  do  otherwise. 

And  to  that  place,  as  related  in  the  beginning  of  this  chap¬ 
ter,  I  one  evening,  toward  the  close  of  the  following  May, 
crossed  the  meadows  to  make  my  first  call.  John  Robinson 
had  been  my  school-mate;  I  had  known  him  in  all  the  devious 
paths  “  that  led  him  up  to  man,”  and  therefore  looked  with 
more  leniency,  perhaps,  on  his  faults  and  foibles,  than  I  other¬ 
wise  should  have  done.  Besides,  he  had,  mixed  up  with  idle 


326 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


and  dissolute  habits,  and  aside  from  his  braggart  conversation, 
and  disposition  to  tyrannize  where  he  had  power  to  do  so,  some 
generous  and  good  qualities.  His  wife,  I  fancied,  must  find  the 
old  place  lonesome,  shut  from  the  contemplation  of  everything 
but  wood  and  meadow,  and  would  meet  with  many  discourage¬ 
ments,  accustomed  as  she  had  been  to  stylish  and  luxurious 
habits  of  life. 

I  had  seen  nothing  of  John  for  several  years;  but  I  had  heard 
reports  not  altogether  favorable  to  his  growth  in  grace  or  refine¬ 
ment.  The  wife  I  had  never  seen  :  and  as  I  walked  down  the 
hollow,  skipped  over  the  run,  (still  trickling  noisily  with  the 
spring  thaw,)  climbed  the  next  hill,  passed  the  old  oak,  quick¬ 
ened  my  steps  through  a  strip  of  woods,  and  struck  into  the 
lane  leading  directly  to  the  door,  I  mused  as  to  what  sort  of 
person  I  should  meet. 

A  thousand  stars  were  out  in  the  blue  sky  when  the  old  gate 
creaked  on  its  hinges  to  admit  me ;  there  was  sufficient  light 
for  an  outside  observation,  and  I  recognized  such  signs  of  thrift 
and  industry  as  I  little  expected  to  see  ;  the  picket  fence  had 
been  mended  and  whitewashed,  the  shrubberies  trimmed,  the 
raspberry  vines  tied  to  supporting  stakes,  and  a  deal  of  rubbish 
cleared  from  the  yard,  where  the  turf  now  lay  fresh  and  smooth, 
save  here  and  there,  where  little  patches  had  been  broken  for 
the  planting  of  flowers.  The  glimpse  I  caught  of  the  high  gar¬ 
den  beds,  straight  rows  of  peas,  pale  shoots  of  onions,  and 
straggling  radish-tops,  were  no  less  pleasantly  suggestive. 
From  the  cow-yard,  I  heard  the  rustling  of  hay,  the  sharp  ring¬ 
ing  of  the  first  streams  of  milk  on  the  bottom  of  the  tin  pail, 
and  the  hummed  fragment  of  a  rural  song.  The  windows  of 
the  kitchen  were  aglow,  and  the  crying  of  a  child,  with  the  voice 
of  one  who  seemed  trying  to  still  it  while  some  other  task  was 
being  performed,  met  my  ear  as  I  rapped  for  admission. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  young  and  pale-looking  woman, 
whom  I  supposed  to  be  Mrs.  Robinson,  and  to  her  I  introduced 
myself,  as  a  neighbor,  well  known  to  her  husband.  There  was 
a  slight  trepidation  in  her  manner,  indicating  a  diffidence  I  did 
not  expect,  though  her  welcome  was  full  of  cordiality,  grace, 
and  sweetness.  The  roses  were  gone  from  her  cheeks,  and  the 


THE  DIFFERENCE,  AND  WHAT  MADE  IT. 


327 


curls  tucked  away  from  their  flowing,  but  she  had,  instead, 
that  look  of  patient,  motherly  meekness,  which  made  her  more 
beautiful ;  her  dress  was  neat  and  tasteful,  and  as  she  left  the 
tea-kettle  steaming  on  the  hearth,  the  table,  with  its  snowy 
cloth  falling  almost  to  the  floor,  and  the  tea  things  partially  ar¬ 
ranged,  and  took  the  baby  on  her  knees,  she  presented,  with 
her  surroundings,  a  picture  which  might  have  made  a  painter 
immortal.  Their  furniture  was  neither  expensive  nor  profuse; 
but  the  happy  disposition  of  such  as  they  had,  gave  an  air 
even  of  elegance  to  their  home.  The  white  muslin  curtains  at 
the  windows,  flowing  draperies  over  the  tables,  the  few  books, 
the  guitar,  and  the  flowers,  imparted  that  particular  charm  to 
the  place  which  I  have  known  a  much  larger  expenditure  fail  to 
produce. 

Mr.  Robinson’s  first  exclamation,  on  seeing  me,  was  pro¬ 
fanely  good-natured;  and  after  his  surprise  had  thus  vented 
itself  he  gave  me  a  friendly  welcome,  and  taking  the  baby 
from  his  wife’s  arms,  entertained  me  with  accounts  of  his  suc¬ 
cess  as  a  farmer.  Nor  did  he  neglect  to  praise  the  aptitude  and 
many  excellencies  of  his  wife ;  telling  me  she  had  not  only 
learned  to  bake  bread,  pies,  puddings,  and  the  like,  but  that  she 
could  wash,  iron,  and  scrub;  in  fact,  understood  all  the  less  ele¬ 
gant  duties  of  housekeeping.  The  lady  blushed  to  hear  her¬ 
self  so  praised  ;  but  she  shrunk  with  mortification  from  the 
rough  adjectives  with  which  each  compliment  was  confirmed. 

After  partaking  of  their  delicious  tea,  and  various  etceteras,  I 
was  quite  willing  to  endorse  all  commendation  of  the  house¬ 
keeper,  and  as  I  took  leave  of  my  new  acquaintance  I  could 
not  avoid  saying  something  of  the  pleasure  I  had  enjoyed, 
as  well  as  expressing  a  hope  that  we  should  meet  each  other 
very  frequently. 

Often  of  summer  evenings,  as  I  sat  in  the  moonlight,  I  heard 
the  music  of  the  guitar  across  the  hill ;  and  once  in  a  while, 
when  it  was  very  still,  I  could  hear  the  young  wife  singing  to 
her  baby.  We  had  soon  a  little  path  worn  through  the  meadow, 
and  many  were  the  exchanges  of  ginger-cakes  and  pies  which 
it  facilitated.  Sometimes  I  caught  the  flutter  of  the  white 
blanket  on  the  edge  of  the  hill,  and  ran  to  meet  my  friend  and 


328 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


relieve  her  of  her  precious  burden.  There  was  no  very  deep 
or  close  sympathy  between  us,  but  however  different  the  circle 
of  our  lives  and  thoughts,  there  were  points  that  touched.  She 
could  teach  ine  to  embroider,  and  to  make  various  little  articles, 
pretty  and  useful,  while  in  other  ways  I  was  not  less  useful  to 
her.  Though  she  never  heard  of  the  Mask  of  Comus,  or  read 
the  Fairie  Queen,  there  were  other  things  to  talk  about. 

So  the  summer  went  by,  and  the  fall ;  and  when  the  fires 
were  kindled  on  the  hearth,  the  long  skirts  of  the  baby  were 
tucked  up,  and  she  was  toddling  from  chair  to  chair,  and  de¬ 
lighting  father  and  mother  by  lisping  the  name  of  each.  Mrs. 
Robinson  was  well  pleased  with  her  new  life,  and  often  ex¬ 
pressed  surprise  that  the  idle  nothings  of  her  former  experience 
could  have  satisfied  her.  The  autumn  tasks,  of  putting  up  and 
down  sweetmeats  and  pickles,  were  accomplished  without  diffi¬ 
culty  or  complaint;  and  even  the  winter,  which  she  had  always 
heard  was  so  lonely  and  comfortless  in  the  country,  was  to  the 
young  wife  and  mother  just  as  pleasant  as  any  other  season. 
There  were  knitting  and  patchwork,  sewing  and  mending,  al¬ 
ways,  to  make  the  days  short ;  then  the  meat  was  to  be  minced 
for  pies,  the  eggs  beaten,  or  the  cakes  baked  ;  so  that,  far  from 
having  time  hang  heavy  on  her  hands,  she  had  scarcely  suffi¬ 
cient  for  all  the  duties  of  the  day.  During  the  blustering 
months  of  snow  we  saw  less  of  each  other  than  previously  ; 
yet  we  had  not  a  few  pleasant  chats  and  rural  games  in  the 
broad  light  of  the  wood  fires. 

For  the  most  part,  the  demeanor  of  Mr.  Robinson  toward 
his  wife  and  child  was  gentle  and  affectionate  :  but  sometimes, 
for  he  was  of  an  arbitrary  and  irritable  temperament,  he  gave 
expression  to  such  coarseness  and  harshness  as  must  have 
driven  a  sensitive  and  refined  woman  “weeping  to  her  bed.” 
As  my  presence  began  to  be  less  a  restraint,  these  unpleasant 
encounters  became  of  more  frequent  occurrence  ;  and  the  wife, 
instead  of  the  silent  endurance  practiced  at  first,  learned  to  re¬ 
tort  smartly,  then  angrily.  However,  these  were  episodes  use¬ 
ful  for  the  general  domestic  tranquillity,  and  were  very  far 
from  requiring  the  binding  over  of  either  party  to  keep  the 
peace. 


THE  DIFFERENCE,  AND  WHAT  MADE  IT. 


329 


IV. 

The  following  spring,  Mr.  Moore,  who  had  never  forgiven 
his  daughter,  died  suddenly,  and  without  any  will,  and  Mrs. 
Robinson  became  heir  to  some  eight  or  ten  thousand  dollars. 
The  humble  home  in  the  country,  in  which  they  had  taken  so 
much  interest,  and  where  they  had  really  had  much  of  happi¬ 
ness,  lost  its  attractions.  Carpets  were  torn  up,  and  curtains 
down,  and,  with  beds,  chairs,  and  tables,  disposed  of  in  sum¬ 
mary  order.  The  old  things  were  no  longer  of  use.  Neces¬ 
sary  preparations  were  soon  effected,  and  early  one  April 
morning  the  fires  were  put  out,  the  doors  locked,  and  the  farm 
house  left  alone. 

A  handsome  house  was  rented  in  town,  stylish  furniture 
bought,  and  half  a  dozen  servants  employed,  for  with  the 
renewal  of  old  associations  and  ampler  means,  more  than  the 
old  indolence  and  extravagance  were  indulged. 

For  three  years,  owing  partly  to  chances  which  I  need  not 
explain,  I  saw  nothing  of  the  Robinsons.  At  the  close  of  that 
period,  I  chanced  to  be  in  their  neighborhood,  and,  with  some 
mingling  of  curiosity  among  kindly  remembrances,  sought 
them  out. 

The  exterior  of  their  dwelling  had  an  humble,  even  a  dingy 
and  comfortless  appearance.  Perhaps,  thought  I,  reports  have 
spoken  falsely,  but  as  the  door  was  opened,  by  a  slatternly 
black  girl,  the  faded  remnants  of  better  times  which  met  my 
eyes  spoke  for  themselves.  1  was  scarcely  seated  when  a 
child  of  some  four  years  presented  herself,  with  dress  and  face 
indicating  a  scarcity  of  water,  and  looking  at  me  with  more 
sauciness  than  curiosity,  asked  me  bluntly  how  long  I  meant 
to  stay  at  their  house.  I  confess  to  the  weakness  of  being 
disconcerted  by  such  questions  from  children,  and  before  I  had 
time  fully  to  recover,  a  boy,  who  might  have  been  two  years 
younger,  and  whose  white  trousers,  red  jacket,  and  milky  face, 
indicated  a  similar  want  of  motherly  attention,  entered  the 
room,  and  taking  the  remnant  of  a  cigar  from  his  mouth,  threw 
his  cap  against  me  with  as  much  force  as  he  was  master  of,  by 


330 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


way  of  salutation,  and  then,  getting  one  foot  upon  the  head  of 
a  broken  cupid  that  graced  a  “  windowed  niche,”  challenged 
my  admiration  of  his  boots.  The  little  girl,  probably  wishing 
me  to  know  she  was  not  without  accomplishments,  opened  a 
piano,  and  began  drumming  on  the  keys,  when,  the  noise 
drowning  the  boy’s  voice,  a  lively  quarrel  ensued,  and  blows 
were  exchanged  with  wonderful  rapidity. 

“  A’n’t  you  ashamed  V7  said  the  girl,  relenting  first,  and 
looking  at  me. 

“No,”  replied  the  boy,  “I  don’t  care  for  her.  Ma  said 
she  did  n’t  want  to  see  her ;  and  pa  was  gone  with  all  the 
money,  and  there  was  nothing  for  supper  but  half  a  mack¬ 
erel  and  two  ginger  cakes.  And,”  he  added,  “  I  am  going 
to  eat  both  of  them.” 

Mrs.  Robinson,  as  she  descended,  caught  the  whole  or  a  part 
of  this  little  piece  of  conversation,  and,  calling  the  black  girl 
from  the  kitchen,  ordered  her  to  bring  “them  two  little 
plagues  out  of  the  parlor  by  main  force.”  Dinah  blustered 
in,  feeling  all  the  dignity  of  her  commission,  and  dragged  them 
out,  as  directed,  in  spite  of  the  triple  remonstrances  of  feet, 
hands,  and  voices. 

As  Mrs.  Robinson  drew  them  up  stairs  by  a  series  of  quick 
jerks,  she  told  them,  in  a  voice  neither  low  nor  soft,  that  she 
had  a  sharp  knife  in  her  pocket,  and  that  if  she  ever  heard 
them  talk  so  again,  she  would  cut  off  their  ears ;  that  for  the 
present,  she  should  shut  them  up  in  her  room,  and  if  they 
quarreled,  or  made  a  bit  of  noise,  a  big  negro  who  was  in  the 
chimney  would  come  down  and  eat  them  up.  But  the  last  and 
awfulest  terror  she  brought  to  bear  on  them,  was  an  intimation 
that  she  would  tell  their  father. 

She  presently  entered  the  parlor,  with  an  infant  in  her  arms  ; 
and  if  I  had  not  been  in  some  measure  prepared  for  a  meta¬ 
morphosis,  I  must  have  betrayed  my  surprise  at  her  altered 
appearance.  There  was  no  vestige  of  beauty  remaining  ;  even 
the  expression  of  her  countenance  was  changed,  and  she  looked 
the  picture  of  sullen,  hard,  and  dissatisfied  endurance.  Her 
pale  hair  had  become  thin,  and  was  neither  arranged  with 
taste  nor  care ;  her  eyes  were  dull  and  sunken  ;  her  nose,  al- 


THE  DIFFERENCE,  AND  WHAT  MADE  IT. 


831 


ways  prominent,  looked  higher  and  sharper ;  and  her  teeth, 
once  really  beautiful,  were  blackened  and  decaying.  The  dress 
she  wore  had  formerly  been  pretty  and  expensive  silk,  and  was 
still  set  off  with  flounces,  buttons,  and  ribbons,  which  brought 
out  the  faded  colors,  grease-spots,  and  tatters,  in  bold  relief. 
The  tidy  chintz,  and  the  loving  and  trusting  heart  she  had, 
when  I  first  saw  her  in  the  old  house,  were  both  gone. 

They  had  made  many  moves  and  removes  during  three 
years  ;  and  Mrs.  Robinson  took  occasion  to  tell  me  of  the 
many  fine  things  she  had  had,  of  the  places  she  had  visited, 
&c.,  so  that  I  could  easily  fill  up  the  history.  Her  husband 
was  gone  to  the  races — had  a  heavy  bet  on  “  Lady  Devereaux,” 
and  if  she  won,  Mrs.  Robinson  was  to  have  a  new  bracelet 
and  satin  dress ! 

“  John  is  very  much  changed,”  said  the  wife;  “the  children 
are  as  much  afraid  of  him  as  they  are  of  death,  and  I  am  glad 
of  it,  for  I  could  not  get  along  with  them  when  he  is  away, 
unless  I  frightened  them  by  threats  that  I  would  tell  their  father 
on  his  return.  You  know,”  she  continued,  “  he  used  to  have 
Helen  in  his  arms  half  the  time  when  she  was  a  baby,  but 
now  he  never  touches  one  of  the  children  unless  it  is  to  beat 
them.  However,  he  is  never  home  now-a-days.” 

“  He  must  have  changed,”  I  said,  “  for  when  you  lived  in 
the  country  he  was  always  at  home.” 

“Oh,  yes;  but  we  were  just  married  then!”  replied  the 
wife. 

How  much  that  sentence  revealed !  and  I  have  thought  often 
since,  that  if  men  and  women  would  continue  to  practice  the 
forbearance,  the  kindness,  the  politeness,  and  little  acts  that 
first  won  love,  the  sunshine  of  happiness  need  never  be 
dimmed. 

In  this  case,  however,  the  neglect  of  these  things  was  not 
the  only  misfortune.  There  are  people  to  whom  money  is  an 
evil,  people  who  will  only  learn  industry,  and  moderation, 
and  the  best  humanities,  in  the  school  of  necessity.  They  who 
sit  down  and  sigh  for  wealth,  who  have  youth  and  health,  and 
God’s  fair  world  before  them,  though  never  so  penniless,  are 
unworthy  of  wealth,  and  to  such  adversity  is  a  good  thing. 


382 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


ELSIE’S  GHOST  STORY. 

* 

I. 

We  were  sitting  by  the  open  window,  cousin  Elsie  and  I, 
for  though  it  was  late  in  November  the  evening  was  unusually 
mild :  we  were  sitting  by  the  window  that  overlooks  one  of 
the  crookedest  streets  of  the  city,  not  looking  much  to  the 
crowds  that  passed  below,  nor  ladies  in  plumes  and  furs,  nor 
gentlemen  with  slender  canes  and  nicely  trimmed  whiskers,  nor 
ragged  urchins  crying  the  evening  papers,  nor  splendid  equip¬ 
ages,  nor  any  of  the  other  various  sights  that  sometimes  interest 
careless  observers,  but  watching  the  bright  clouds  that  over 
the  distant  water  wrapt  the  sun  in  a  golden  fleece  for  his  nightly 
repose.  The  long  reach  of  woods  that  is  beneath  was  hidden 
by  dense  masses  of  blue  smoke,  in  which  the  red  basement  of 
the  sky  seemed  to  bury  itself.  A  portion  of  the  great  forest 
of  masts  that  borders  a  part  of  the  city  was  visible  from  our 
window,  and  now  and  then  a  black  scow  moved  slowly  over 
the  waves,  and  a  white  sail  gleamed  for  a  moment,  and  was 
gone. 

Autumn,  especially  an  autumn  twilight,  is  always  to  me  a 
melancholy  time;  even  with  the  ripe  nuts  dropping  at  my  feet, 
or  with  my  lap  full  of  bright  orchard  fruits,  I  am  more  lonely 
then  than  when  winter  whistles  through  his  numb  fingers  and  the 
drowsy  snow  blows  in  great  drifts  across  the  flowers.  When 
the  transition  is  once  made,  when  the  fire  is  once  brightly  glow¬ 
ing,  and  the  circle,  wide  or  narrow,  drawn  about  it,  and  the  song 
of  the  cricket  well  attuned,  the  undefinable  heaviness  that  lay 
on  my  heart  all  the  fall,  is  gone,  blown  away  with  the  mists. 
I  had  a  playmate  whose  happiness  was  dearer  to  me  than  my 


ELSIE’S  GHOST  STORY. 


333 


own.  My  lost  one,  my  sister — how  often  from  the  little  sun¬ 
shine  that  has  been  my  portion,  I  have  turned  aside  to  think  of 
thee,  on  whose  life  the  blight  of  sin  had  scarcely  fallen,  ere 
from  the  rippled  length  of  thy  dark  tresses  we  took  the  flow¬ 
ers — trusting  thy  feet  to  the  dark. 

The  rain  was  falling  when  she  died, 

The  sky  wras  dismal  with  its  gloom 
And  Autumn’s  melancholy  blight, 

Shook  down  the  yellow  leaves  that  night, 

And  dismally  the  low  winds  sighed 
About  her  tomb. 

And  when  swart  November  comes  round,  and  the  winds 
moan  along  the  hills,  and  pluck  from  the  withering  woods  the 
last  leaves,  something  of  the  old  sorrow  comes  back.  A 
shadowy  host,  born  of  the  fading  glories,  stands  between  me 
and  the  light,  and  as  I  gaze,  sweeps  in  a  pale  procession  toward 
the  tomb. 

Looking  up  from  the  reverie  in  which  I  had  fallen,  I  saw  that 
cousin  Elsie  was  wrapt  under  the  wing  of  a  darker  sorrow  than 
mine. 

“  Arouse  thee,  dearest,  ’tis  not  well 
To  let  the  spirit  brood 
Thus  darkly  o’er  the  ills  that  swell 
Life’s  current  to  a  flood,” 

I  said,  laying  my  hand  lightly  and  half-playfully  on  her’s.  But 
as  I  did  so,  the  tears,  which  only  a  strong  effort  had  kept  back, 
dropt  hot  and  fast.  1  left  her  for  a  moment,  and  affected  to 
busy  myself  at  the  fire,  for,  though  the  window  was  open,  the 
grate  was  well  heaped,  more  for  the  sake  of  its  genial  glow, 
than  because  any  warmth  was  needed ;  and  when  I  returned 
and  seated  myself  at  her  side,  the  tears  were  gone,  and  a  smile 
that  seemed  even  sadder  than  tears,  hovered  on  her  lips. 

I  said  something  about  the  chilliness,  as  I.  lowered  the  sash, 
and  pointed  to  the  first  star  that  stood  blushing  in  a  rift  of 
faded  cloud.  My  observations  required  no  answer,  for  I  talked 
rather  for  than  to  her.  Seeing  this,  she  seated  herself  on  a  low 
stool  at  my  feet,  and  laying  her  head  on  my  knees,  said  in  a 
mannner  she  intended  to  be  gay — u  You  need  not  affect  uncon¬ 
sciousness,  for  you  are  wondering  what  I  am  thinking  about, 
even  though  you  do  talk  of  the  stars.” 


334 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


I  acknowledged  the  truth,  and  she  added, — “  Will  it  amuse 
you  to  hear  my  thoughts 

I  replied  that  it  would  ;  and  she  gave  me  a  reminiscence 
of  our  life  at  Clovernook,  where  my  heart  always  wanders 
from  the  city,  when  I  am  in  no  cheerful  mood. 

II. 

“You  think  me  a  dull  companion  sometimes,”  she  said, 
“  and  I  know  that  I  am  so ;  at  this  season,  especially,  I  am 
gloomy,  for  it  was  at  such  a  time  that  some  of  the  flowers  of 
hope  died  which  will  never  blossom  in  all  my  future  life.  Las 
year  I  sat  on  the  doorsteps  before  our  home,  watching  the  sun¬ 
set,  as  bright  as  this  to-night.  Adeline  was  with  me — for  we 
were  always  together — dear  sister !  she  is  happier,  I  hope,  than 
I  shall  ever  be.  We  sat  in  open  air,  partly  that  we  knew  its 
genial  mildness  must  soon  be  gone  before  the  chill  blasts,  and 
partly  that  it  seemed  more  lonely  in  the  house,  for  we  had  been 
to  the  funeral  of  Louisa  Hastings  that  day — you  did  not  know 
her — one  of  the  sweetest  and  most  amiable  tempered  girls  I 
ever  knew.  I  would  not  mention  her  now,  but  for  what  I  am 
going  to  tell  you.  She  was  young  and  beautiful,  rich,  and  a 
universal  favorite,  but  consumption  was  hereditary  in  her 
family,  and  she  had  scarcely  attained  the  maturity  of  woman¬ 
hood  when  the  fatal  symptoms  manifested  themselves.  Morn¬ 
ing  and  evening,  all  the  past  summer,  we  had  seen  the  slowly- 
drawn  carriage  in  which  she  took  the  fresh  air,  and  though  she 
knew  that  her  journeying  must  presently  terminate  in  the  dark, 
a  smile  of  patient  serenity  was  ever  on  her  face.  As  we  sat 
together  on  the  steps  that  night,  the  red  sunset  clouds  away  be¬ 
fore  us,  with  now  and  then  a  star  trembling  through,  we  saw 
before  us  the  new  and  smoothly  shaped  mound,  about  which 
the  yellow  leaves  were  drifting  for  the  first  time.  Between  our 
home  and  the  great  city  there  is  a  thickly  wooded  hill  of  over 
a  mile  in  length,  which  has  the  reputation  of  being  haunted  > 
and  in  truth  it  is  no  wonder,  for  a  more  gloomy  looking  place, 
even  in  daylight,  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine.  In  its  whole 
length  there  is  no  house,  save  a  ruinous  old  cabin,  where  the 


ELSIE’S  GHOST  STORY. 


835 


sheep  that  stray  about  the  hills,  seemingly  without  owner, 
lodge  at  night,  and  in  which  a  murder  was  once  committed, 
since  which  it  has  had  no  human  inhabitant.  The  road,  wind¬ 
ing  partly  around  and  over  this  hill,  is  so  narrow  that  the 
branches  of  the  trees  growing  on  either  side  meet  overhead  and 
interlace ;  so  that  even  at  noonday  a  kind  of  twilight  prevails, 
and  at  night  the  gloom  is  dense,  unless  the  moon  be  full.  Just 
at  the  summit,  and  dividing  the  woods  from  the  villas  that  be¬ 
gin  to  dot  the  landscape,  a  stone  wall  incloses  a  small  lot  of 
ground,  known  as  the  Hastings  Burial  Place,  and  there  the 
grave  of  Louisa  had  been  made.  One  sad  event  links  itself 
with  another  always,  and  we  talked  of  Charley  Hall ;  of  the 
many  times  we  had  sat  there,  gay  and  happy,  because  of  his 
presence  ;  and  of  the  last  night  of  our  parting,  then  a  year 
agone.  Away  across  the  wild  mountains  he  was  going  from 
us  to  remain  a  year  :  a  little  year,  as  he  said  himself — a  long 
year,  as  it  seemed  to  me.  Need  I  explain  why  ] 

“  The  long  absence  was  nearly  over  on  that  evening,  and 
though  his  letters  to  me  had  not  been  of  the  character  his  pre¬ 
vious  conduct  had  led  me  to  expect,  I  could  not  help  looking 
forward  anxiously,  hopefully,  to  the  time  of  his  return.  Of  that 
time  we  talked,  as  we  partly  reclined  against  the  steps,  our  feet 
resting  in  the  cushion  of  grass,  over  which  crept  the  wild  ivy, 
which  also  fastened  itself  in  the  crevices  of  the  blue  stones,  of 
which  the  steps  were  roughly  made,  and  clambered  among  the 
rose-bushes  that  grew  under  the  windows. 

“At  last,  after  speaking  much  of  fears,  and  hopes  that  kin¬ 
dled  fears,  we  grew  gradually  still,  and  as  the  shadows  fell 
thicker  and  darker,  a  childish  timidity  came  over  me — the 
creaking  of  the  boughs  against  the  wall,  or  a  sudden  shadow 
thrown  across  the  moonlight,  startled  me — I  felt  a  premonition 
of  evil.  I  could  hear  the  treading  of  the  cattle  among  the  green 
ridges  of  sweet  scented  hay,  and  across  the  orchard  hill  saw 
the  sheep  and  lambs  lie  quietly  among  the  yellow  sheaves  of 
oats  that  had  been  scattered  for  their  evening  meal ;  but  rural 
pictures  and  sounds  failed  of  soothing  ;  and  when  far  away  I 
heard  the  beating  of  hoofs,  I  listened  eagerly  and  half  trem¬ 
blingly,  fixing  my  eyes  on  the  gray  line  of  dust  that  stretched 


336 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


to  the  south.  “  I  should  be  glad,”  I  remember  saying,  “  if  that 
horseman,  if  horseman  he  be,  were  well  by,”  and  of  asking 
Adeline  if  she  felt  no  apprehension.  “  Not  the  least,”  she  re¬ 
plied  ;  and  her  manner,  for  she  burst  into  outright  laughter,  for 
a  moment  reassured  me;  and  especially  when  she  added,  “Do 
you  not  hear  the  rattling  of  wheels  ?  I  suspect  it  is  Johnny 
Gates,  coming  from  market,  and  fearful  lest  his  wife’s  supper 
be  cold.”  I  was  not  well  at  ease,  however,  and  as  the  strokes 
fell  heavier  and  heavier,  could  not  help  repeating  the  wish  I 
had  made  at  first.  Presently,  dividing  the  shadows  of  the  next 
hill,  the  gay  but  seemingly  tired  animal  appeared.  He  was 
not  the  sober  pony  of  Johnny  Gates,  nor  did  he  draw  the  little 
market  cart,  so  familiar  to  us  both ;  for  neither  the  shining  lit¬ 
tle  buggy,  nor  the  briskly  trotting  horse,  with  slender  ears 
pricked  forward,  and  flanks  speckled  with  foam,  had  either  of 
us  ever  seen  before  ;  and  the  full  round  moon  was  quite  above 
the  eastern  tree-tops,  large  and  bright,  so  that  we  saw  quite 
distinctly. 

“  More  slowly  the  driver  ascended  the  hill,  looking  eagerly 
toward  the  house,  directly  opposite  which  he  drew  up  the  reins, 
and  I  could  hear  the  impatient  champing  of  the  bit  and  pawing  on 
the  ground,  as  he  alighted,  and  approaching,  inquired  if  we  were 
sisters  of  Mrs.  Dingley,  who,  he  said,  was  sick,  and  desired  me 
to  come  to  her.  She  was  many  years  older  than  I,  and  though 
I  loved  her,  it  was  not  as  I  loved  Adeline,  who  had  come  up 
the  pleasant  paths  of  childhood,  into  the  shadowy  borders  of 
womanhood,  and  the  thick  sorrows  of  maturer  life,  by  my  side. 
She  had  married  unfortunately,  as  you  perhaps  know,  and,  in 
the  suburbs  of  the  city,  lived  in  a  humble,  even  a  comfortless 
way.  The  news  of  her  illness  pained  but  did  not  surprise  me  ; 
and  remarking  that  1  knew  an  evil  star  was  in  my  house  of  life 
that  night,  I  set  about  the  little  preparations  necessary  for  my 
departure.  In  less  than  an  hour  I  was  on  my  way,  and  Ade¬ 
line,  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  was  alone. 

“  In  the  bustle  of  preparation,  and  the  sorrow  of  departure,  I 
had  scarcely  remarked  the  man  who  drove  the  carriage,  but  as 
the  lights  of  home,  and  those  most  near  to  us,  faded  out, 
I  began  to  observe  him  more  particularly  than  I  had  done  be- 


ELSIE’S  GHOST  STORY. 


337 


fore.  He  seemed  a  short  thick  person,  with  a  round  heavy 
head  set  close  on  his  shoulders,  with  a  complexion  so  dark  as 
to  throw  some  doubt  upon  his  origin,  though  I  saw  him  but  im¬ 
perfectly,  as  he  was  enveloped  in  a  rough  shaggy  coat,  the 
skin  of  some  animal  apparently,  the  collar  of  which  was  drawn 
up,  concealing,  in  part,  his  head,  on  which  he  wore  neither  cap 
nor  hat,  but  instead  a  comforter  of  woolen,  the  ends  of  which  hung 
loose,  forming  a  tassel.  The  right  hand  was  bandaged  with  a 
white  cloth,  but  nevertheless  he  dexterously  managed  the  fiery 
animal  he  drove  with  the  left  hand.  We  had  proceeded  a  mile 
or  two  in  silence,  when  thinking,  perhaps,  his  voice  would  de¬ 
stroy  the  vague  terror  suggested  by  his  person,  I  addressed 
to  him  some  remark;  but  his  reply  was  brief,  and  in  a  grum 
and  forbidding  tone,  so  that  I  understood' not  a  word. 

“  As  we  drew  near  the  grave-yard  in  the  edge  of  the  lone¬ 
some  wood,  I  noticed  that  the  gate,  which  was  of  iron,  and 
usually  locked,  stood  a  little  open,  and  whether  this  circum¬ 
stance  quickened  my  imagination  I  do  not  know,  but  I  either 
heard,  or  thought  I  heard,  a  noise  within.  My  companion 
seemed  to  hear  it  too,  for  drawing  up  the  reins,  he  leaned  in 
that  direction,  and  listened  closely,  though  he  spoke  not.  Sud¬ 
denly  the  horse,  which  had  been  with  difficulty  restrained,  ele¬ 
vated,  his  head,  and  lowering  his  back  as  though  to  pass  under 
an  arch,  sped  swiftly  down  the  slope  and  under  the  tangled 
boughs  of  the  haunted  hill.  ‘  Don’t  be  scared  at  nothing,  old 
boy,’  said  my  taciturn  friend,  addressing  the  refractory  horse, 
and  bringing  him  to  a  sudden  stand,  with  a  jerk  so  violent  that 
it  at  first  threw  him  back  on  his  haunches,  he  leaped  out,  and 
throwing  the  reins  on  the  ground,  as  if  purposely  to  add  to  the 
fear  in  my  heart,  which  he  must  have  been  aware  of,  he  suc¬ 
ceeded  in  auieting  the  animal  by  half  fond,  half  rough  caresses, 
bestowed  on  his  glossy  neck  and  head. 

“  I  felt  myself  trembling,  and  dared  not  speak,  lest  my  fear 
should  betray  itself.  The  broad  field  of  moonlight  lay  on  the 
summit  of  the  hill  behind  us,  and  not  yet  quite  out  of  view, 
and  a  little  faint  and  checkered  light  struggled  through  the 
boughs.  My  strange  conductor,  after  repeatedly  listening  and 
looking  back,  as  though  in  expectation  of  something,  began 

15 


338 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


fumbling  in  his  pocket,  perhaps  for  a  deadly  weapon,  I  thought, 
and  I  breathed  freely  when  he  only  took  thence  a  watch  with  a 
heavy  chain  attached,  both  of  which,  by  their  glittering,  seemed 
gold,  and  turning  it  toward  the  moonlight,  endeavored  to  dis¬ 
cover  the  time  of  night.  It  must  have  been  about  eleven 
o’clock,  as  I  judged  by  the  moon.  Every  thing  he  did,  the 
hour,  the  place,  were  suspicious,  else  my  state  of  mind  rendered 
them  so.  We  did  not  remain  thus  motionless,  perhaps,  over 
ten  minutes,  but  it  was  long  enough  for  me  to  conjure  a  thou¬ 
sand  shapes  of  evil.  My  sister’s  illness  might  have  been  a 
pretence  under  which  to  lure  me  to  death.  Once  or  twice  I 
was  near  screaming  for  help,  but  the  consciousness  that  none 
was  within  reach,  and  the  knowledge  that  I  should  but  hasten 
my  doom  if  there  were  really  danger,  kept  me  still,  and  when 
we  again  set  forward,  very  slowly,  I  tried  to  divert  my  thoughts 
from  their  hideous  channel,  and  had  in  part  succeeded,  when  a 
new,  but  not  less  terrible  fear  thrilled  the  very  marrow  in 
my  bones. 

“We  were  nearly  midway  of  the  lonesome  road :  on  one 
side  was  a  ridge  of  high  stony  hills,  and  on  the  other  a  deep 
ravine,  along  which  a  noisy  stream  tumbled  and  dashed  toward 
the  river,  which  swallowed  it.  The  mist  hung  white  above  it, 
and  crept  lazily  up  the  ascent  beyond,  and  from  beneath  its 
folds  the  whippoorwill  was  repeating  its  mournful  song.  In  the 
bottom  of  the  carriage  lay  a  small  coil  of  rope,  which  the 
slightest  motion  of  my  feet  disturbed,  giving  me  most  unplea¬ 
sant  sensations.  Once,  as  I  endeavored  to  shuffle  it  aside,  the 
man  chuckled,  and  saying  ropes  were  used  sometimes  for  other 
purposes  than  hanging,  placed  it  on  the  seat  between  us.  As 
he  did  so,  I  noticed  that  he  looked  back  earnestly,  and  that  the 
gaze  was  often  repeated.  I  did  not  dare  to  look,  though  I  now 
distinctly  heard  the  rumbling  of  some  light  vehicle  behind  us. 
Nearer  and  nearer  it  came,  and  thinking,  perhaps,  it  might  be 
Johnny  Gates  on  his  way  to  market — though  I  had  once  mis¬ 
taken  a  similar  sound  that  night — and  that  an  honest  friend 
might  be  very  near,  I  turned  and  saw  a  small  uncovered  wagon 
drawn  by  one  horse,  at  a  distance  of  but  fifty  yards.  Within 
it  two  men  were  seated,  and  right  between  them,  upright,  and 


ELSIE’S  GHOST  STORY. 


S39 


stiff  and  stark,  seemingly,  was  what  appeared  a  woman  clothed 
in  white.  Fears  would  not  permit  a  continuance  of  my  gaze, 
nor  would  it  allow  me  to  look  steadily  in  the  opposite  direc¬ 
tion,  and  so  as  we  descended  beneath  the  dark  arching  of  trees, 
I  often  looked  back.  They  did  not  approach  more  nearly,  and 
the  light  was  faint,  but  my  first  impression  would  take  no  other 
shape. 

“It  seemed  to  me  the  long  hill  would  never  have  an  end, 
and  with  that  mysterious  carriage  creeping  slowly  and  softly 
behind  us,  the  moments  were  centuries.  At  last,  however, 
I  saw  the  road  emerging  into  the  light,  and  heard  the  stage 
coach  rattling  over  the  bridge  beyond.  Presently  I  saw  the 
tossing  manes  of  the  four  gay  horses  and  the  glimmer  of 
the  lamps.  My  weak  fears  were  gone,  and  from  my  bent 
and  trembling  position  1  drew  myself  up  and  looked  boldly 
around.  The  ghostly  equipage  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

III. 

“It  was  near  midnight  when  we  drew  up  in  the  broad 
area  of  light  that  fell  from  the  window  of  my  sister’s  sick 
chamber.  The  moon  was  high,  and  so  bright  that  the  stars 
seemed  fewer  and  paler  than  was  their  wont.  The  air  had 
become  chilling,  and  the  streets  were  almost  entirely  deserted, 
which  heightened  my  desolate  feeling;  for  my  friends,  as  I 
have  said,  lived  in  the  suburbs  of  the  city,  and  I  saw  through 
a  row  of  naked  trees  that  stood  a  little  to  the  west,  the 
white  gleam  of  high  monuments,  and  low  and  thickly  set  tomb¬ 
stones.  Glad  as  I  was  to  be  separated  from  my  strange 
conductor,  a  dismal  home-sick  feeling  came  to  trouble  me 
anew. 

“  It  is  a  sad  thing  to  go  into  a  strange  house  where  there  is 
sickness.  We  need  to  be  strong  and  hopeful  ourselves,  in  order 
to  bear  with  us  any  of  the  joy  and  light  of  consolation.  This 
residence  of  my  sister  was  of  wood,  small  and  unpainted,  and 
on  an  obscure  street,  without  pavement  or  lamps,  with  on  the 
one  side  an  old  graveyard,  from  which  a  part  of  the  dead  had 
been  removed  and  on  the  other  a  lunatic  asylum,  from  which 


840  OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 

proceeded  such  frightful  noises  as  tended  in  no  wise  to  quiet  my 
feelings. 

“  My  quick,  loud  rap,  was  presently  answered  by  my 
brother-in-law,  whose  highly  decent  and  respectable  appearance 
contrasted  strangely  with  the  poor  and  scanty  air  of  things  about 
him.  He  was  one  of  those  peculiarly  organized  persons  who, 
capable  of  turning  his  hand  to  almost  anything,  was  only 
goaded  by  the  closest  necessity  to  any  sort  of  exertion.  Of 
the  most  amiable  disposition  imaginable,  and  affectionate  to  his 
wife  and  children — proud  of  them  indeed — he  was  nevertheless 
so  invulnerably  indolent,  that  the  common  comforts  of  life 
were  often  •wanting  to  them  and  to  himself.  He  was  a  little, 
stiff,  and  exceedingly  pompous  man,  both  in  manners  and  con¬ 
versation,  and  his  ‘  expectations’  were  a  theme  on  which  he 
dwelt  delightedly  from  one  year’s  end  to  another.  ‘  Aman¬ 
da^,’  he  was  accustomed  to  say,  when  he  saw  his  patient  and 
worn  wife  bending  over  the  miserable  remnant  of  some  gar¬ 
ment — ‘  don’t  work  any  more,  my  dear  ;  I  will  get  new  clothes 
for  the  children.’  But  his  promises  were  the  basis  of  small 
hopes,  and  poor  Amanda  generally  darned  on  as  long  as  the 
tallow  candle  gave  her  any  light.  She  is  one  of  the  best  and 
most  painstaking  women  in  the  world,  and  in  spite  of  all  her 
many  crosses  and  disappointments,  loving  and  even  hopeful 
still.  God  knows  whether  she  will  ever  have  the  little  cottage 
invested  with  vines  and  shrubbery  which  is  her  ambition  ;  but 
at  this  period  everything  about  her  was  hopeless. 

“  The  room  we  entered  was  small,  with  low  ceiling,  curtain- 
less  windows,  and  naked  floor.  The  furniture  consisted  of  a 
few  common  chairs,  a  square  pine  table,  a  cupboard  in  which 
there  was  nothing  to  eat,  and  a  stove  in  which  there  was  no 
fire.  My  brother-in-law  kissed  my  forehead,  said  he  was  de¬ 
lighted  to  see  sister  ElsaA,  that  the  prospect  looked  a  little 
sombre  just  now — glancing  about  the  room — but  that  in  a  day 
or  two  things  would  assume  their  usually  cheerful  aspect ;  and 
as  this  was  being  said  he  conducted  me  up  a  narrow  flight  of 
stairs,  and  into  the  sick  chamber.  My  sister  I  found  quite  ill, 
but  not  dangerously  so,  and  the  room  was  as  barren  of  com¬ 
fortable  appliances  as  the  one  I  first  entered.  I  soon  contrived 


ELSIE’S  GHOST  STORY. 


341 


to  arrange  things  as  well  as  I  could,  and  when  the  bed  and  pil¬ 
low  had  been  carefully  spread,  and  the  hands  and  face  of  the 
invalid  freely  bathed  in  cold  water,  she  felt  refreshed,  and  after 
a  little  toast  and  some  cheerful  conversation,  fell  asleep.  The 
husband,  wearied  with  the  watching  of  previous  nights,  shortly 
followed  her  example,  and  I  was  left  to  wile  the  remainder  of 
the  night  away  as  best  I  could.  Hearing  the  tossing  and  turn¬ 
ings  of  the  children  in  the  next  room,  I  looked  in  to  see  what 
disturbed  their  slumber.  Their  beds  were  hard  matrasses,  laid 
flat  on  the  floor,  and  the  clothing,  even  for  that  early  season, 
was  quite  too  scanty,  eked  out  as  it  was  with  old  shawls  and 
petticoats. 

“  There  were  the  two  black-eyed  little  girls,  each  with  arms 
folded  lovingly  about  the  other,  but  with  a  half  scowl  on  her 
face ;  near  by  lay  their  brother,  an  active  and  intelligent  boy 
of  ten  years,  his  hands  locked  tightly  together  above  his  heavy 
black  hair,  and  his  lips  compressed  as  though  conscious  of  endu¬ 
rance.  Piled  on  the  floor  at  the  head  of  his  bed  were  the  two 
or  three  dozen  books  that  composed  his  library.  They  had 
been  collected  from  various  sources,  and  were  carefully  pre¬ 
served,  as  appeared  from  the  paper  covers  in  which  the  most 
elegantly  bound  were  enveloped.  Some  of  them  he  had  re¬ 
ceived  as  prizes  at  school,  a  few  I  had  given  him,  and  the 
remainder  were  fruits  of  his  labor;  for  sometimes  on  Saturdays 
and  other  holidays,  he  did  errands  for  Mr.  Mackelvane,  a  rich 
merchant  and  neighbor,  who  employed  his  father  as  clerk, 
when  he  would  condescend  to  be  employed.  A  shrewd  boy 
and  a  good  was  my  nephew  Ralph.  Depending  over  the  little 
library,  by  way  of  ornamenting  his  part  of  the  room,  I  suppose, 
were  two  or  three  graceful  plumes  of  the  peacock.  I  took  the 
shawl  from  my  shoulders,  and  spread  it  over  his  bed  as  a  cov¬ 
erlid,  wrapping  it  warmly  about  his  neck.  He  did  not  wake, 
but  his  countenance  assumed  a  softened  expression,  and  I  was 
more  than  repaid  for  my  own  deprivation. 

“  The  fire  was  growing  dim,  and  the  light  low,  and  hoping 
to  divert  my  thoughts  from  their  troubled  channel  I  took  up 
the  evening  paper,  and  by  chance  ran  over  the  list  of  arrivals, 
and  among  them  was  that  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  H - .  I 


342 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


cannot  describe  to  you  the  terrible  sensation  which  came  over 
me.  I  knew  not  till  then  what  hope  I  had  been  leaning  on — 
suddenly  it  was  broken  away,  and  I  felt  too  weak  and  wretched 
and  helpless  to  stand  alone.  The  past  was  a  mockery  and 
delusion,  the  present  a  horrible  chaos,  and  the  future  all  a 
blank.  How  was  I,  faltering  and  fainting  with  a  bleeding 
heart,  to  be  a  minister  of  strength  and  consolation,  to  speak 
what  I  felt  not,  and  feel  what  I  spoke  not.  I  was  irritated  by 
every  sound :  no  matter  whether  it  were  of  the  wind  moaning 
through  the  trees  along  the  grave-yard,  or  of  some  belated  step 
on  the  ground  below — it  seemed  like  digging  the  tomb  of  peace. 
The  candle  burned  dim,  and  flickered  and  went  out ;  I  knew  not 
where  to  find  another,  and  so,  with  no  other  light  than  that  of 
the  dying  embers,  and  the  white  sheet  of  moonlight  that  fell 
across  the  darkness,  I  sat  there,  in  solitude,  with  a  darker  sor¬ 
row  on  my  spirit  than  1  had  ever  known  before.  Beyond  the 
desolate  common,  with  low  and  mean  houses  scattered  here 
and  there,  burned  the  lamps,  rose  the  luxurious  dwellings 
and  shone  the  towers  of  the  great  and  wealthy  city  :  no  light 
anywhere  in  the  world  burned  for  me,  none  of  those  elegant 
homes  had  any  word  or  warmth  for  me — I  was  suddenly  be¬ 
come  an  alien  from  humanity.  He,  who  had  made  all  things 
beautiful,  all  situations  endurable,  was  once  more  near  me ; 
the  chime  of  the  same  bells  smote  upon  our  ears,  but  how  dif¬ 
ferent  the  echoes  it  awakened.  Fate  links  strange  contrasts — 
the  bridal  train  sweeps  by  the  slow,  pale  procession  of  death, 
and  the  lights  of  the  birth-chamber  grow  dim  in  an  atmosphere 
of  woe  !  It  seemed  that  the  long  night  would  never  end  ;  but 
what,  in  the  great  universe  of  things,  are  our  little  joys  or 
sorrows,  that  the  wings  of  time  should  be  stayed  or  quickened 
for  them  !  At  length  the  hours  wore  by,  and  the  sounds  of  foot¬ 
steps  on  the  pavement,  first  at  intervals  only,  began  to  be 
heard,  and  gradually  deepened  and  thickened — the  world  was 
astir,  and  morning  was  come  to  every  one  but  me. 

“  Some  little  light  came  into  my  heart  as  the  children  climbed 
about  me,  in  an  ecstacy  of  gladness.  Ralph  was  more  shy 
than  the  little  girls,  and  felt  a  hesitancy  about  scrutinizing  my 
bonnet  and  shawl  with  as  much  freedom  as  they,  nor  could  he 


ELSIE’S  GHOST  STORY. 


843 


exhibit  his  little  collection  of  books  with  the  complacency  they 
felt  in  showing  me  their  patchwork  and  dolls.  He,  however, 
at  last,  half  in  shame  and  half  in  pride,  displayed  before  me 
not  only  his  books,  but  another  treasure  scarcely  less  prized. 
The  most  choice  volumes  he  took  from  their  paper  envelopes 
that  I  might  see  how  free  from  any  soiling  they  were,  and  be 
gratified  with  the  brightness  of  the  bindings.  I  praised  him  for 
their  careful  preservation,  as  well  as  for  the  knowledge  he  had 
derived  from  them. 

44  While  he  and  I  were  thus  engaged,  the  little  girls  had  con¬ 
stantly  interrupted  us  with,  4  Oh,  come  aunty,  oh  come  down, 
Ralph  has  got  something  prettier  to  show  you.’  4  Never  mind,’ 
said  Ralph  at  last,  4  Aunt  Elsie  has  seen  a  thousand,  and  pret¬ 
tier  ones  than  mine,  I  expect,’  though  he  was  evidently  as  anx¬ 
ious  as  they,  judging  from  the  alacrity  with*  which  he  ran  down 
stairs  before  me,  when  I  said,  4  What  is  it  Ralph — a  dog  V 
He  laughed  at  my  mistake,  adding,  44  It  isn’t  nothing  much.” 

44  In  one  corner  of  the  hard  beaten  door-yard  grew  a  small 
cherry-tree,  and  from  its  topmast  bough,  trailing  earthward 
and  shining  and  sparkling  in  the  light  of  the  lately  risen  sun, 
were  the  plumes  of  a  beautiful  peacock.  Very  proud  he 
looked,  and  as  if  unwilling  to  descend  to  the  common  earth. 
‘  That  is  all,’  said  Ralph,  pointing  to  the  bird,  but  no  doubt  ex¬ 
pecting  on  my  part  a  delightful  surprise.  I  did  feel  pleasure, 
and  expressed  perhaps  more  than  I  felt.  ‘  Who  gave  him  to 
you  V  I  asked.  4  No  one,’  he  replied,  4 1  bought  him  with  mo¬ 
ney  Mr.  Mackelvane  gave  me  for  doing  errands  ;’  and  more 
sorrowfully,  after  a  moment  he  said,  4 1  might  have  spent  the 
money  more  usefully,  mother  says,  but  I  wanted  something 
pretty,  and  we  had  nothing  that  was  pretty.’ 

44  My  praises  of  the  beauty  of  the  bright-plumed  bird  soon 
diverted  his  thoughts  to  a  more  agreeable  channel,  and  in  confer¬ 
ring  happiness,  I  became  at  least  less  miserable.  Mr.  Dingley, 
who  was  always  going  to  do  something,  making  arrangements 
for  some  wonderful  speculation,  instead  of  actually  accomplish¬ 
ing  anything,  set  out  on  a  journey  of  a  hundred  miles,  a  day  or 
two  after  my  arrival,  taking  with  him  most  of  the  scanty  means 
the  house  afforded,  and  saying  as  he  did  so,  4 1  should  not  be 


344 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


surprised  AmandaA,  if  I  made  a  thousand  dollars  by  this  little 
trip.’ 

44  ‘  1  should,’  said  Ralph,  who  was  wise  beyond  his  years  ;  and 
going  close  to  his  mother,  he  asked,  in  a  whisper,  if  father  had 
taken  all  the  money.  She  told  him  his  father  always  did  what 
he  thought  was  for  the  best,  and,  quieted,  if  not  convinced,  he 
left  the  room.  Presently  I  descended  too,  and  found  him  sit¬ 
ting  on  the  doorstep  of  the  kitchen,  his  eyes  full  of  tears,  and 
vainly  endeavoring  to  twist  the  sleeve  of  his  roundabout  in  a 
way  that  would  conceal  the  ragged  elbow.  Busying  myself,  1 
affected  not  to  see  the  exhibition  of  sorrow,  and  when  his  eyes 
were  dry,  said  carelessly,  ‘I  see,  Ralph,  you  have  torn  the 
sleeve  of  your  coat — if  you  will  take  it  off  1  will  mend  it.’  He 
took  it  off,  saying  as  he  laid  it  in  my  lap,  4  It  is  not  torn,  aunt 
Elsie,  but  worn  out**/  and  while  I  mended  it,  telling  him  I  could 
make  it  look  just  as  well  as  when  new,  he  informed  me  that 
Washington  Mack  el  vane  had  a  fine  blue  coat  with  brass  but¬ 
tons,  and  that  he  laughed  at  his  old  gray  one,  calling  him  a 
poor  boy. 

44  Mrs.  Dingley  continued  to  improve,  and  at  the  end  of  a  week 
was  quite  well.  From  the  time  of  my  coming,  our  meals  had 
been  growing  less  and  less  substantial,  till  we  were  finally  re¬ 
duced  to  almost  nothing,  and  the  last  cent  was  expended. 

44  Poor  Ralph,  whose  sufferings  were  twice  as  great  because  I 
knew  it  all,  staid  from  school,  and  asked  Mr.  Mackelvane  if  he 
could  not  give  him  something  to  do,  but  that  gentleman  did  n’t 
want  anything  done;  he  next  took  two  of  his  prettiest  books 
to  the  grocer,  and  tried  to  exchange  them  for  something  to  eat, 
but  the  grocer  did  n’t  want  them,  saying  he  had  no  time  to 
read ;  and,  discouraged  and  almost  crying,  the  little  fellow 
came  back.  4  What  shall  we  do,  mother1?’  he  said,  in  the  hope 
that  she  might  have  resources  he  knew  not  of ;  but  she  could 
suggest  nothing  better  than  the  asking  Mr.  Mackelvane  to  lend 
them  some  money  till  Mr.  Dingley’s  return.  4  No,’  said  Ralph, 
resolutely,  4  not  as  long  as  we  can  help  it,’  and  away  he  ran, 
without  giving  us  any  intimation  of  his  intention.  When  he 
returned,  which  was  in  half  an  hour,  Washington  Mackelvane 
was  with  him,  and  going  straight  to  where  the  peacock  was 


ELSIE'S  GHOST  STORY. 


845 


dropping  his  long  plumes  in  the  sun,  seized  him  by  a  dexter 
ous  movement,  and  bore  him  off  in  triumph,  tossing  Ralph 
some  money  as  he  did  so,  as  though  it  were  of  no  importance 
to  him.  Ralph  came  in,  and  placing  the  price  of  his  treasure 
in  his  mother’s  hand,  ran  up  to  his  room,  and  sitting  down  on 
the  edge  of  his  low  bed,  gave  way  to  his  emotion — half  of  vex 
ation  at  the  loss  of  his  favorite,  half  of  joy  that  he  was  able  by 
any  sacrifice  to  save  his  mother  and  sisters  from  a  part  of  their 
unhappiness.” 


IV. 

When  Cousin  Elsie  had  finished  this  story  of  poor  Ralph, 
drawing  our  chairs  to  the  fire,  for  the  air  was  become  chilly,  I 
asked  whether  she  heard  anything  more  of  her  strange  escort,  or 
the  mysterious  pursuit.  Nothing  farther,  she  said,  than  that 
the  person  hired  to  convey  her  to  the  city  bore  the  reputation 
of  an  honest  man  ;  but  as  to  the  vision,  or  whatever  it  were, 
on  the  lonesome  hill,  no  more  was  learned  by  her,  except 
that  a  young  man,  of  strict  integrity,  who  chanced  to  be  return¬ 
ing  home  late  from  visiting  a  sick  neighbor,  encountered  the 
same  strange  vehicle  with  the  white  occupant.  “And  Charley 
H.,”  I  said,  “  did  you  meet  him  ?” 

“  Yes,”  said  cousin  Elsie,  “and  that  was  the  most  unkindest 
cut  of  all.” 

“I  could  not  bear  to  eat  Ralph’s  bread,  procured  as  it  was, 
and  not  really  being  needed  any  longer,  I  set  out  to  walk  home, 
and  with  the  little  parcel  in  my  hand,  had  reached  the  lone¬ 
some  hill,  when  a  handsome  equipage  overtook  and  passed  me, 
and  looking  up,  I  recognized  Mr.  H.  The  lady  sitting  at  his 
side,  who  seemed  beautiful  and  very  gayly  dressed,  looked  back 
from  the  window  several  times.  Oh,  I  could  have  called  on 
the  trees  to  crush  me!”  said  Elsie,  “for  very  mortification.” 

We  sat  long  in  silence,  looking  into  the  fire.  Little  Ralph 
and  his  beautiful  bird  would  not  let  me  sleep.  Many  a  name 
illumines  the  page  of  history  for  a  less  noble  heroism  than  his. 


15* 

\ 


846 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


WARD  HENDERSON. 

I. 

The  wild  wind  swept  over  the  hills,  and  rocked  and  rattled 
the  naked  boughs  of  the  long  strip  of  woodland,  the  dead  leaves 
of  which  sometimes  drifted  against  the  door  and  blew  over  the 
windows  of  the  little  cottage  of  Mrs.  Henderson.  But  that  night, 
the  last  night  of  the  year  the  crying  of  the  wind  and  the  surg¬ 
ing  of  the  fallen  leaves  seemed  less  mournfully  suggestive  to 
the  inhabitants  of  this  humble  house,  than  for  a  great  many 
previous  nights. 

The  house  was  small  and  rude,  being  constructed  of  logs  on 
the  exterior  of  which  the  rough  bark  was  still  remaining.  The 
roof  was  of  clap-boards,  battened,  and  so  close  as  to  be  nearly 
as  impervious  as  the  best  shingling.  The  door  wTas  made  of 
slabs,  and  opened  with  a  wooden  latch,  and  from  the  small  and 
uncurtained  window  the  light,  on  the  evening  I  write  of,  shone 
out  brilliantly,  streaming  across  the  frozen  ground,  just  begin¬ 
ning  to  whiten  with  the  finely  sifted  snow.  From  the  top  of 
the  low  chimney,  composed  of  sticks  and  mortar,  showers  of 
red  sparks  issued,  and  were  scattered  by  the  wind  until  their 
quick  extinction.  A  short  distance  from  the  house,  and  fronting 
it,  stood  an  oak  tree,  shorter  than  most  of  its  species,  and  with 
an  exceedingly  heavy  top  ;  the  gray  leaves  of  this  year  clinging 
thickly  yet.  A  little  farther  down  the  slope,  was  a  spring  of 
water,  bubbling  up  in  spite  of  the  cold,  though  the  snow  was 
beginning  to  form  about  it  in  a  sleety  rim.  In  the  rear,  and 
meeting  the  woods,  wrere  a  few  ancient  apple  trees,  which  seemed, 
from  their  thickly  tangled  boughs,  not  to  have  been  pruned  for 
years,  and  out  of  them  thousands  of  slim  rods  grew  up  straight. 
There  was  no  barn  or  other  out-house,  to  give  the  place  an  air 


WARD  HENDERSON. 


347 


of  plenteous  comfort,  with  the  exception  of  a  small  building, 
made  to  serve  as  a  cellar,  walled  and  roofed  with  slabs,  and  built 
partly  in  and  partly  out  of  the  ground,  which  was  heaped  about 
it,  and  over  all  rose  a  high  green  mound,  green  at  least  in 
summer,  though  to-night  it  resembled  a  great  heap  of  snow. 
Her  head  turned  from  the  driving  wind,  and  her  back  crouched 
down,  stood  a  little  black  cow,  with  very  clear  and  very 
crooked  horns,  and  an  udder  that  looked  shrivelled,  as  though 
it  would  never  yield  milk  again.  But,  notwithstanding  that, 
when  she  shall  have  had  a  bundle  of  hay,  from  the  near  stack, 
encompassed  with  rails,  the  bright  tin  pail,  now  shining  in  the 
dresser,  will  froth  up  to  the  brim.  She  is  so  gentle  and  kind 
that  young  Ward  Henderson,  as  well  as  his  mother,  may  milk  her. 
In  the  light  that  falls  from  the  window  is  a  small  dog,  blacker 
than  the  cowr ;  he  turns  sideways  as  the  wind  comes  against  him, 
but  does  not  growl ;  he  is  crunching  a  bone  quite  too  large  for 
his  mouth,  and  in  his  efforts  at  mastication,  turns  his  head  more 
and  more  to  one  side,  and  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  ground. 
The  snow  falls  off  from  his  sleek  back,  and  his  eyes  glitter  like 
fire.  Not  every  day  the  cur  can  get  a  bone  so  worth  his  care. 

But  let  us  look  within.  The  logs  of  hickory  and  ash  are 
heaped  high,  and  the  dry  chips  between  help  to  send  the  blaze 
far  up  the  chimney.  The  stones  that  make  the  broad  hearth 
are  blue  and  clean.  Some  strips  of  rag  carpet,  looking  new  and 
bright,  cover  the  greater  part  of  the  floor,  and  the  remainder  is 
scoured  very  white.  The  room  is  large,  and  in  the  two  corners 
farthest  from  the  great  fire-place,  are  two  beds ;  between  them 
stands  a  bureau,  on  which  a  dozen  books  are  carefully  arranged  ; 
some  common  chairs  stand  against  the  wall,  which  is  white¬ 
washed,  as  is  also  the  low  ceiling.  A  few  sprigs  of  cedar  are 
festooned  about  the  small  looking  glass,  and  in  the  cupboard, 
which  has  no  door,  pewter  platters  and  delf  ware  are  arranged 
to  the  most  showy  advantage. 

But  humanity  deepens  the  interest  of  the  picture,  no  matter 
whether  homely  or  refined.  What  could  poets  glean  from  the 
desert,  with  its  hot  waste  of  sands,  but  for  the  tinkling  bell  of 
the  camel,  and  the  cool  well  under  the  shrub,  and  the  isolated 
tent  of  the  Arab.  What  were  the  dense  forests  and  rugged 


348 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


cliffs  and  billowy  prairies  that  hem  the  western  world,  but  for 
the  bundles  of  arrows  and  crests  of  plumes  and  skin-lined  lodges 
of  the  red  man. 

In  this  cottage,  sitting  upright  in  an  unpainted  wooden  cradle, 
looking  wide  awake,  but  very  sober,  is  the  baby  ;  he  may  be 
two  years  old,  with  bright  black  eyes,  and  hair  of  the  same 
color,  which,  thick  and  parted  either  way  from  his  forehead, 
give  him  an  old  and  wise  look.  He  wears  only  a  simple  kilt 
of  calico,  and  one  chubby  hand  plays  with  the  rounded  foot, 
and  the  other  lies  on  the  patchwork  quilt  covering  his  cradle  bed. 
Sitting  on  a  low  stool,  at  one  corner  of  the  fireplace,  is  a  boy, 
ten  years  old,  perhaps ;  he  has  a  thoughtful,  intelligent  counte¬ 
nance,  and  seems  quiet  and  shy.  Ilis  hands  are  locked  together 
over  one  knee  and  he  seems  to  see  neither  the  baby  in  the  cradle, 
nor  the  great  blazing  fire,  nor  yet  his  mother,  who,  in  a  tidy 
apron  and  with  sleeves  turned  back,  is  moulding  cakes  on  the 
white  pine  table  near  the  window.  She  looks  as  though  she 
had  known  toil  and  privation  and  suffering,  and  yet,  above  the 
sorrow  is  a  look  of  cheerful  resignation. 

Near  the  abstracted  little  boy,  closely  wrapt  in  a  great 
shawl,  sits  a  young  girl;  she  is  rocking  to  and  fro  before  the 
fire,  and  it  seems  that  the  light  might  almost  shine  through 
her  thin  transparent  hands.  Her  cheek  is  hollow  and  pale, 
and  her  dark  eyes  look  very  large  and  brilliant,  but  she  seems 
happy,  and  talks  with  animation  and  gayety,  not  only  of  to¬ 
morrow  but  of  next  month,  and  next  year.  There  are  no  shoes 
on  her  feet  and  as  they  rest  on  the  cushion  she  often  stoops  to 
draw  up  the  stocking  which  slips  down  from  the  wasted  and 
wasting  ankle. 

“How  merrily  the  wind  whistles  !”  she  says,  “the  old  year 
does  not  go  out  without  music;  but  Ward,  why  do  you  sit 
there  so  sober  and  still  ?  see,  you  make  the  baby  look  sober 
too  ;”  and  clapping  her  hands  together,  she  tried  to  make  him 
laugh,  but  he  pouted  his  lips  instead,  half  crying.  She  con¬ 
tinued,  “  Bring  some  of  the  nuts  we  gathered  last  fall,  and  let 
us  have  a  merry  evening,  and  not  sit  as  though  we  never  ex¬ 
pected  to  see  another  new  year.” 

Ward  turned  aside  to  hide  tears  that  came  to  his  eyes  and 


WARD  HENDERSON. 


849 


going  to  the  bureau,  took  down  all  the  books  and  re-arranged 
them  precisely  as  they  were  before,  and  presently  climbing 
up  to  the  loft,  brought  a  basket  of  nuts. 

Meantime  the  baby  had  fallen  back  on  his  pillow  asleep, 
and  Mrs.  Henderson,  as  she  baked  the  cakes  by  the  fire,  sat 
with  her  children,  rocking  the  cradle  now  and  then,  and  talking 
more  and  more  cheerfully  and  hopefully:  so  much  do  the  moods 
of  those  about  us  influence  our  own. 

“  I  think,  Mary,  you  are  surely  better,”  she  said,  looking 
anxiously  at  her  daughter.  “  You  must  be  careful  and  not  get 
another  bad  turn  till  spring,  and  then  the  mild  weather  will 
quite  restore  you.” 

“  I  told  you  I  should  get  well,”  answered  the  girl,  laughing¬ 
ly  ;  “just  see  how  fat  I  am  getting,”  and  drawing  up  her 
sleeve,  she  exhibited  an  arm  of  ghastly  thinness.  The  mother 
said  nothing,  and  Mary  continued,  “  If  I  keep  on  improving,  I 
shall  be  well  enough  to  begin  sewing  again  in  a  week.”  She 
was  interrupted  by  a  severe  fit  of  coughing,  but  added,  when 
she  had  recovered  a  little,  “What  a  nice  dinner  we  shall  have 
to-morrow;  I  think  even  Ward,  indifferent  as  he  seems,  will 
relish  the  minced  pie ;  but  the  chicken — he  won’t  care  for  that,” 
she  added  playfully. 

u  Maybe  not,”  answered  Ward,  “  I  don’t  know  how  it  tastes.” 
Mary  said  he  would  know  to-morrow,  and  he  too  at  last  began 
to  be  interested.  Naturally  of  superior  intelligence,  and 
always  accustomed  to  sorrowful  privations,  he  was  thoughtful 
beyond  his  years.  He  was  always  making  plans  for  the  happi¬ 
ness  of  his  mother  and  sister,  more  than  for  his  own,  and  pro¬ 
posed  to  do  a  thousand  things  when  he  should  be  older.  He 
already  rendered  them  much  assistance — driving  the  cow  to  and 
from  the  pasture,  milking  her,  and  making  the  garden,  besides 
bringing  and  taking  home  the  sewing  which  his  mother  did  for 
neighbors,  within  three  or  four  miles.  These  things  were  all 
dune  out  of  school  hours,  for  he  never  lost  a  day  from  the 
school  room,  trudging  manfully  the  long  distance,  when  the 
winds  were  too  chill  for  his  thin  cotton  coat,  and  when  the 
frosts  made  his  feet  so  cold  that  he  sometimes  roused  the  cattle 
from  their  places  in  the  fence  corners  and  warmed  them  in 


350 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


their  beds.  Many,  who  wore  warm  comforters  and  thick  coats 
and  shoes,  never  stood  at  the  head  of  his  class ;  but  this  would 
not  repay  him  any  longer  for  the  frequent  bitter  taunts  he 
received  for  his  poverty.  He  had  never  spoken  of  these  things 
at  home,  knowing  it  would  only  pain  his  mother,  who  did  for 
him  the  best  she  could.  He  had  usually  talked  of  his  studies 
with  more  interest  than  of  anything  else,  and  wishing  to  divert 
his  thoughts  from  the  sad  channel  in  which  they  seemed  to 
flow,  Mrs.  Henderson  asked  him  whether  he  would  not  soon  be 
wanting  new  books.  But,  to  her  surprise,  he  answered,  “  No, 
I  don’t  want  to  go  to  school  any  more.”  “  Why,  my  child, 
what  in  the  world  is  the  matter'?”  exclaimed  the  mother,  in 
unfeigned  surprise.  Ward  did  not  reply,  and  without  “hanging 
up  his  stockings,”  crept  into  bed,  and  stifling  emotion  he  could 
not  quite  suppress,  he  fell  asleep. 

II. 

When  the  cakes  were  all  baked,  and  the  fire  began  to  grow 
dim,  as  the  mother  and  daughter  also  prepared  to  retire,  the 
little  black  dog  growled  harshly,  placing  himself  against  the 
door,  and  the  old  cock  in  the  cherry  tree  cackled  as  though 
suddenly  awakened.  Presently  the  growl  became  a  bark,  and 
a  footstep  was  heard  crushing  down  the  snow.  The  visitor 
proved  a  brother  of  Mrs.  Henderson,  a  butcher,  from  the  city, 
miles  away  from  Clovernook.  He  had  been  in  the  country  all 
day,  buying  sheep  and  calves,  and  with  a  little  cart  pretty 
well  filled,  was  now  on  his  way  home,  and  stopped  for  a  mo¬ 
ment  to  see  how  his  sister  prospered.  He,  too,  was  poor,  with 
seven  children  of  his  own,  so  that  he  could  give  her  little  but 
counsel  and  the  encouragement  of  sympathy.  To-night,  how¬ 
ever,  he  was  in  fine  spirits  ;  the  prices  of  meat  had  risen,  and 
rents  were  low,  and  his  oldest  boy  had  just  obtained  employment 
as  carrier  of  the  News,  by  which  he  earned  three  dollars  a  week. 
The  publisher  wanted  another — an  intelligent  lad  from  the 
country  would  be  preferred— and  Mr.  Dick,  or  Uncle  Job,  as 
his  sister  called  him,  urged  the  expediency  of  sending  Ward. 
Mrs.  Henderson  was  startled  at  the  idea.  How  could  she  part 
with  her  child,  who  had  never  been  from  beneath  her  roof  for 


WARD  HENDERSON. 


851 


a  day  ?  But  by  little  and  little  her  scruples  were  overcome. 
“There  is  such  necessity,”  says  Uncle  Job,  looking  at  Ward’s 
thin  cotton  trowsers,  that  hung  on  the  back  of  a  chair  by  his 
bedside  (Mr.  Dick  never  softened  anything)  ;  “you’ll  miss  his 
society,  no  doubt,  but  think  of  the  pecuniary  advantage  and 
he  added,  glancing  at  Mary,  “  there  is  no  telling  what  expense 
of  doctor  bills  and  the  like  you  will  have  to  defray  before 
spring  :  this  weather  goes  hard  with  folks  of  her  complaint. 
I  suppose,”  he  continued,  “  the  disease  is  hereditary — her  father 
was  consumptive  always,  as  you  may  say.  I  was  here  at  the 
burying,  but  1  forget  what  grave-yard  you  put  him  in.”  Mr. 
Job  Dick  never  dreamed  but  that  he  was  talking  in  the  plea¬ 
santest  vein  imaginable,  and  looked  bewildered  and  surprised 
when  he  saw  his  sister  applying  the  corner  of  her  apron  to  her 
eyes.  He  could  not  have  interpreted  aright,  for  shrugging  his 
shoulders  as  the  wind  whistled  through  the  crevices,  he  said, 
“A  miserable  old  house ;  it  will  tumble  down  upon  you  all,  one 
of  these  days  ;  yes,”  he  continued,  making  a  sort  of  reply  to 
himself,  “it’s  fall  is  inevitable.” 

“Perhaps  it  will,”  thought  Mrs.  Henderson,  and  she  trembled 
as  a  stronger  gust  came  by. 

“  Well,  what  have  you  determined  asked  Uncle  Job  ;  and 
rising,  he  stood  before  the  fire,  awaiting  her  final  decision. 

“I  cannot  let  him  go,”  faltered  the  poor  widow;  “I  will  keep 
them  all  together,  as  long  as  I  can.” 

But  the  sound  of  a  strange  voice  had  broken  the  light  slum¬ 
bers  of  Ward  ;  with  his  elbow  resting  on  his  pillow,  and  his 
head  on  his  hand,  he  had  heard  all  the  conversation,  and  as  his 
mother  ceased  speaking,  he  replied,  in  a  calm,  firm  voice,  that 
he  would  go.  He  was  soon  dressed — his  uncle  saying  he  liked 
such  energetic  movements,  and  his  mother  silently  and  tearfully 
preparing  his  scanty  clothes.  When  he  took  the  bundle  in  his 
hand,  he  hesitated  ;  it  was  hard  to  leave  them  all — the  baby 
asleep,  and  gentle  Mary,  and  his  dear  kind  mother.  Once  or 
twice  he  untied  and  tied  his  bundle,  and  as  his  mother  wrapt 
a  part  of  a  blanket  about  him,  and  told  him  to  be  always  a 
good  boy,  the  tears  quivered  through  his  eyelashes,  and  with¬ 
out  speaking  a  word  he  walked  straight  out  of  the  room,  and 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


presently  uncle  Job’s  little  cart  was  heard  creaking  and  crushing 
through  the  snow. 

How  lonesome  it  was  in  the  little  cabin  !  the  dog  crouched 
close  against  the  door,  and  whined  low  and  mournfully  ;  the 
empty  bed,  the  old  hat  on  the  peg,  everything  reminded  the 
poor  mother  of  her  son,  who,  in  the  cold  and  dark,  was  going 
farther  and  farther  awav. 

v 

And  long  and  lonesome  seemed  the  road  to  Ward,  as  he 
nestled  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  cart,  among  the  sheep — 
the  old  blanket  drawn  up  over  his  head,  and  the  snow  settling 
all  over  him.  He  had  never  been  to  the  city  but  once  before, 
and  everything  seemed  strange  to  him.  He  caught  glimpses 
of  great  houses,  and  of  low  dark  sheds,  whence  the  lowing  of 
cattle  and  the  bleating  of  sheep  came  painfully  upon  his  ears. 
He  half  wished  he  was  back  home  again  ;  nor  was  he  much 
soothed  and  encouraged,  when  uncle  Job  said,  “You  must  not 
mind  trifles,  but  persevere,  and  make  a  man  of  more  efficiency 
than  your  father,  who  was  always  a  trifling,  lazy  scamp,  and  a 
great  detriment  to  your  mother,  who  was  better  off  without 
him.  I  should  n’t  wonder,”  continued  uncle  Job,  in  the  same 
consolatory  strain,  “if  you  never  saw  your  sister  again.  Your 
mother  will  be  lonesome,  losing  two  at  once.  There  is  the 
baby — it  will  be  a  long  time  before  he’is  any  help  ;  he  looks 
smart  and  likely  now,  but  for  all  that  he  may  be  growing  up 
to  be  hanged.” 

Ward  was  half  disposed  to  slip  out  of  the  cart  and  run  home, 
and  more  especially,  when  his  uncle  told  him  the  city  to  which 
he  was  going  was  full  of  temptations,  and  that  unless  he  was 
mighty  resolute,  he  would  get  into  the  house  of  correction,  or 
on  the  “  chain  gang,”  it  might  be.  It  was  a  long  way  back, 
and  he  was  afraid  he  could  not  find  the  road,  and  so,  trembling 
in  fear  of  the  pitfalls  he  supposed  would  be  laid  for  him,  he 
remained  shrinking  from  the  snow,  till,  in  the  dingy  suburbs  of 
the  city,  the  little  wagon  halted. 

Uncle  Job  lived  in  a  small,  rickety  house  :  it  might  have 
been  easily  repaired,  and  made  comfortable,  but  Aunt  Dick  was 
one  of  those  women  who  never  permit  their  husbands  to  accu¬ 
mulate  more  than  five  dollars  at  one  time.  She  was  a  lame. 

C5  7 


WARD  HENDERSON. 


353 


easy,  good-natured  person,  with  the  best  Intentions,  but  with¬ 
out  any  prudent  forecast  or  calculation — a  sort  of  Mrs.  Nancy 
Yancey,  toned  down,  to  a  degree.  Ward  thought  she  must  be 
very  kind,  for  some  hot  coffee  was  waiting  by  the  fire,  and  on 
the  table  were  spread  some  crackers  and  cheese.  They  were 
dainties  to  him ;  and,  after  partaking  of  them  and  getting 
warm  by  the  fire,  Uncle  Job  spread  down  his  great-coat  and 
two  sheep  skins,  on  which,  tired  and  sleepy  from  chilliness,  he 
slept  till  morning,  when  the  voice  of  Aunt  Dick,  as  she  bent 
over  him,  exclaiming,  by  way  of  expressing  her  surprise,  “  High, 
diddle,  diddle,”  &c.,  aroused  him  to  a  consciousness  of  his  new 
position. 

Uncle  Job  had  seven  children,  and  a  great  din  and  uproar 
they  made  when  one  room  contained  them.  But  his  amiable 
help-meet  said  they  must  talk  and  laugh  just  as  much  as  they 
pleased,  and  if  Joby  did  n’t  want  to  hear  it,  he  must  go  out  of 
the  house,  which  w^as  only  for  women  and  children,  at  any  rate. 
Before  Job  went,  however,  he  was  required  to  empty  his 
pockets.  Sometimes,  but  rarely,  he  asked  what  was  wanting 
now  ?  but  the  inquiry  was  useless,  as  he  w'ell  knew,  for  it  was 
always  the  same  story, — the  same  in  kind — Kitty  had  torn  her 
new  frock,  on  the  nail  that  tore  Billy’s  coat  the  other  day,  and 
so  she  must  have  a  new  one  ;  and  as  the  good  woman  received 
the  money,  she  would  say,  “Joby,  you  must  drive  the  nail  in, 
with  a  piece  of  brick,  or  something  ;  the  children  have  lost  the 
hammer.” 

“  If  we  had  what  is  wasted  here,”  thought  Ward,  as  he  sat 
by  the  fire  watching  his  aunt  prepare  the  breakfast,  “  I  should 
not  have  been  obliged  to  come  away.” 

“Where  are  the  warm  cakes,  this  morning  ?”  asked  Uncle 

Job. 

“Why,  my  griddle  got  broke  in  two,  and  I  had  n’t  anything 
to  bake  them  on.” 

“  But  you  might  have  baked  biscuit  in  the  oven  of  the  stove,” 
suggested  the  husband. 

The  wife  said,  “  The  stove  has  got  choked  with  ashes,  so  it 
will  not  bake  any  more  ;  a  man  must  be  hired  for  a  day  to 
clean  it  and  make  it  bake.  We  will  soon  have  to  get  a  new 


854 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


one ;  this  has  lasted  longer  now  than  any  one  I  ever  had,  and 
I  guess  I  have  had  a  half  a  dozen.” 

Ward  had  always  thought  a  stove  would  last  a  lifetime. 

The  breakfast  was  at  length  ready.  Aunt  Dick,  having 
arranged  the  table,  and  made  the  coffee,  between  intervals  of 
rocking  before  the  fire,  and  telling  Job  what  was  worn  out  and 
what  was  lost,  and  what  he  must  bring  home  for  dinner.  But 
the  children  were  not  ready  for  breakfast :  one  had  lost  her 
shoes,  and  one  had  not  got  her  face  washed,  and  one  was  not 
out  of  bed  at  all ;  but  Mrs.  Dick  said  those  that  were  ready, 
must  help  those  that  were  not ;  and  she  and  Job  began  break¬ 
fast  as  complacently  as  though  all  were  quiet  and  in  order. 

IH. 

After  a  day  or  two,  Ward  accompanied  his  cousin  John  to 
the  office  of  the  News.  John  was  a  short,  burly  boy,  a  year  or 
two  older  than  Ward  ;  he  had  always  lived  in  the  city,  and 
was  not  afraid  of  man  or  beast — having  been  used  to  both. 
He  not  only,  in  his  own  estimation,  could  lift  more  than  any 
other  boy  of  his  years,  but  he  had  suffered  more,  from  various 
causes,  with  a  distinct  relation  of  all  which  he  favored  Ward, 
from  time  to  time.  And  as  they  walked  the  long  distance  from 
Uncle  Job’s  to  the  News  office,  on  the  morning  alluded  to,  he 
related  many  peculiar  and  aggravated  instances  of  affliction, 
beginning  with  a  mad  ox  of  his  father’s  that  had  once  bruised 
and  tossed  him  in  a  terrible  manner,  tearing  his  trowsers  into 
ribbons,  and  that,  but  for  his  wonderful  presence  of  mind,  would 
doubtless  have  crippled  him  for  life,  or  killed  him.  In 
the  next  place,  having  been  sufficiently  entertained  with  the 
wonder  of  his  cousin,  he  said  he  had  once  had  a  bee-sting  on 
his  hand,  causing  such  inflammation  that  a  peck  measure  would 
not  have  held  itr  and  that  he  never  slept  a  wink  for  two  weeks 
— the  bee  was  called  a  poison  bee,  or  thousand  stinger,  he  said. 
It  was  strange,  Ward  thought,  that  he  had  always  lived  in  the 
country,  and  never  heard  of  any  such  insect.  Many  other 
equally  curious  and  interesting  things  the  city  youth  related, 
which  gave  him  great  consequence  in  his  own  estimation.  And 


WARD  HENDERSON. 


855 


he  dressed  in  all  respects  like  a  man,  and  smoked,  and  some¬ 
times  drank  whisky. 

Such  was  the  future  companion  of  Ward.  Poor  little  boy, 
no  wonder  he  wished  he  had  stayed  at  home  !  There  were  a 
good  many  men  about  the  stove  in  the  publisher’s  office,  and, 
naturally  shy,  and  now  frightened,  he  shrank  tremblingly  into 
the  obscurest  corner  ;  but  John  went  boldly  forward,  saying, 
“  Gentleman,  I  have  some  business  with  the  publisher — make 
way.”  And  whether  they  heeded  him  or  not,  he  soon  made 
way  for  himself,  telling  the  man  of  business  he  had  brought 
him  a  country  boy,  such  as  he  thought  would  suit — “ignorant 
and  awkward,  of  course,”  he  added,  “but  that  will  wear  off, 
sir  ;”  and  thrusting  both  hands  in  his  pockets,  he  drew  himself 
up,  evidently  supposing  he  had  acted  a  very  distinguished  part. 
“  Where  is  he  from  ?”  inquired  the  man.  John  put  his  hand 
over  his  mouth,  and  in  half  whisper  said,  “  The  butcher  picked 
him  up  with  some  sheep  and  calves.” 

“  I  should  like  to  have  a  view  of  him,”  said  the  respectable 
personage,  holding  on  his  spectacles  with  one  hand,  and  peeping 
between  the  shoulders  of  the  men  by  the  stove. 

“  Ward,  this  way,”  called  out  his  exhibitor;  and,  grasping 
his  well-worn  hat  tightly  with  his  freezing  hands,  and  looking 
down,  the  timid  child  came  forward. 

“  Do  you  think  we  are  thieves  V  asked  the  publisher  ;  and 
as  Ward  answered,  “No,  sir,”  he  continued,  “What  makes 
you  hold  your  hat  so  tight,  then  V’ 

Ward  began  to  dislike  his  cousin  very  much,  and  to  doubt 
whether  there  was  any  such  bee  as  the  poison  bee  or  thousand- 
stinger.  That  he  was  a  vulgar,  ill-bred  boy,  he  knew,  and  yet 
he  stood  silent  and  abashed  before  him. 

The  new  arbiter  of  his  fate  saw  he  was  just  such  a  boy  as 
he  wanted,  and  felt  that  as  he  had  no  guardian  or  friend,  he 
could  manage  him  as  he  chose — make  him  do  a  great  deal,  in 
fact,  and  give  him  little  for  it.  Nevertheless,  he  said,  “1  am 
afraid  he  will  not  suit,”  surveying  him  from  head  to  foot ;  “but 
if  you  have  a  mind,  you  may  come  with  me  for  a  month,  and  if 
I  find  you  honest,  and  of  any  tolerable  capacity,  we  can  perhaps 
make  a  bargain.” 


856 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“What  answer  do  you  give  the  gentleman?”  interposed 
John,  getting  one  foot  on  the  hearth  of  the  stove,  and  pulling 
down  his  vest. 

Ward  said  he  would  go,  for  he  thought  he  would  rather  go 
anywhere  than  remain  with  his  precocious  relative,  who  said, 
as  he  walked  away  consequentially,  “  I’ll  tell  the  butcher  I’ve 
disposed  of  you.” 

IV. 

The  new  situation  was  anything  but  agreeable.  Ward  was 
obliged  to  perform  many  servile  offices,  such  as  tending  the 
bell,  carrying  in  the  coal  and  out  the  ashes,  sweeping  pave¬ 
ments,  and,  in  short,  was  made  a  sort  of  boy-of-all-work.  His 
bed  was  a  hard  one,  and  in  a  cold,  empty  garret — not  by  any 
means  so  comfortable  as  the  feather-bed  with  the  patch-work 
counterpane  by  the  great  blazing  fire  at  home  ;  and  sometimes, 
as  he  lay  in  the  cold  and  dark,  he  wished  he  had  never  gone 
from  the  quiet  old  cottage.  Even  the  cow  and  the  dog  drew 
him  toward  them  with  almost  a  human  interest.  The  food  was 
such  as  he  had  not  been  accustomed  to  eat,  and  was  less  to  his 
taste  ;  the  cold  and  half-cooked  beefsteak  was  less  agreeable  to 
him  than  the  potatoes  roasted  at  home  in  the  ashes.  But 
through  the  hardships  and  privations  of  the  first  month,  he 
cheered  himself  with  the  idea  of  receiving  some  money  at  its 
close,  and  of  going  home  ;  when,  however,  the  long  time  expired, 
and  he  ventured  to  hint  his  wishes,  the  publisher  coolly  told 
him  he  had  hardly  earned  his  bread  and  lodging,  and  that  to 
go  home  was  quite  out  of  the  question  if  he  expected  to  con¬ 
tinue  in  his  employ — that  boys  who  could  not  live  away  from 
their  mothers  were  usually  good  for  nothing.  If  he  would  stay, 
nevertheless,  till  the  next  New-Years,  and  gave  satisfaction  as  a 
carrier,  and  make  himself  useful  about  the  house,  he  would  give 
him  fifty  dollars. 

“  But  you  give  John  Dick  more,  a  good  deal,”  urged  Ward, 
timidly. 

“  What  I  give  other  folks  has  nothing  to  do  with  you  ;  and 
if  you  wish,  you  can  go  further  and  fare  worse — I  can  get 
a  hundred  boys  for  less  money.” 


WARD  HENDERSON. 


857 


Ward  with  difficulty  refrained  from  crying  as  he  said  he 
would  go  and  ask  his  uncle  Job,  and  whatever  he  decided  for 
him  he  would  do.  John  was  not  at  home  when  Ward  arrived 
there,  and  he  was  glad  of  it,  and  almost  hoped  another  “  pison 
bee”  would  sting  him.  Uncle  Job  had  gone  out  to  buy  calves, 
but  Aunt  Dick  was  in  the  kitchen,  good-natured  as  ever,  baking 
pies,  and  she  gave  a  whole  hot  one  to  Ward,  telling  him  he 
must  eat  it  all.  She  said  she  was  just  trying  her  new  stove  by 
baking  twenty  or  thirty  ;  that  the  old  one  had  got  full  of  ashes, 
and  almost  worn  out,  for  she  had  had  it  a  year  and  a  half,  and 
so  had  given  it  away,  and  got  a  new  one.  Ward  felt  so  much 
encouraged  by  her  sunshiny  face,  her  genial  talk,  and  warm 
fire,  that  the  thought  of  a  year  seemed  less  terrible  to  him,  and 
he  secretly  resolved  to  stay.  What  a  wearisome  winter  it 
was  !  and  as  the  little  carrier-boy  shivered  along  the  street — 
for  his  thin  clothes  and  ragged  shoes  were  but  slight  protection, 
— no  one  noticed  or  pitied  him,  except  myself,  but  I  noticed 
and  pitied  him  often.  Instead  of  leaving  the  paper  at  the  gate, 
as  the  other  boys  did,  he  brought  it  always  and  laid  it  on  the 
window-sill,  beside  which  I  sat  writing.  He  never  had  any¬ 
thing  new — the  same  old  cloth  cap,  pulled  down  over  his  eyes, 
the  same  linsey  roundabout  arrd  trowsers,  and  thick  heavy 
shoes,  which  gave  way  and  gapped  apart  more  and  more  every 
day.  I  had  noticed  him  all  the  winter,  and  while  the  sleet  and 
snow  dripped  from  the  eaves,  and  the  daffodils  came  up  under 
the  window ;  the  old  shoes  were  thrown  aside,  and  the  trowsers 
were  darned  and  patched,  but  worn  still,  and  could  not  help  a 
deeper  interest  in  him  for  a  vague  recollection  of  having  seen 
his  childish  face  sometimes  at  Clovernook. 

Now,  my  window  was  opened,  and  I  sometimes  spoke  to  the 
boy  ;  but,  though  I  wished  to  do  so,  there  was  something  about 
the  little  fellow  that  prevented  my  offering  him  money.  As 
the  summer  went  on,  however,  our  acquaintance  ripened  slowly, 
so  that  when  it  was  raining,  he  sometimes  stopped  under  the 
porch,  and  I  gave  him  apples,  or  other  fruit ;  but  I  never  talked 
to  him  except  of  his  occupation,  the  weather,  or  other  common¬ 
places,  though  I  felt  sure  of  his  superior  intelligence. 


So8 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


V. 

Time  passed  along,  and  away  across  the  city,  through  open¬ 
ings  of  roofs,  and  between  spires,  I  could  see  the  red  woods  of 
October  ;  and  these  faded  and  withered,  and  there  came  the 
chill,  dismal  rains  of  November.  A  dull,  dreary,  and  monoto¬ 
nous  storm  had  continued  all  night  and  all  day,  and  all  day  and 
all  night  again  ;  and  now  and  then  one  of  the  great  sere  leaves 
of  the  sycamore  that  grew  in  the  yard  blew  against  the  window. 
I  had  chanced  to  miss  seeing  my  little  friend,  and  I  took  up  my 
pen  on  the  depressing  and  comfortless  morning,  more  with  the 
purpose  of  watching  for  him  than  because  I  felt  any  inclination 
to  write.  I  was  presently  wrapt  in  meditation,  and  quite  forgot 
my  object,  and  so  softly  he  came,  that  it  was  only  by  the  dark¬ 
ening  of  the  window  that  I  noticed  him. 

The  smile  which  came  to  my  lips  was  startled  away  when  I 
perceived  him,  haggard  and  wretched,  turning  back  into  the 
rain,  without  noticing  me.  His  coat  was  unbuttoned  and 
blowing  wildly  open,  and  he  seemed  to  be  buffeted  in  very 
sport  by  all  the  merciless  elements.  He  had  no  shoes  on  his 
feet,  and  his  cloth  cap  was  drenched  and  matted  close  to  his 
head.  I  called  to  him,  and,  as  he  turned  toward  me,  I  per¬ 
ceived  that  he  had  been  weeping  violently.  “Come  in  and 
get  warm  by  the  fire,”  I  said  ;  “  I  have  not  seen  you  for  a  long 
time.”  He  would  have  thanked  me,  but  his  lips  trembled,  and 
the  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes,  as  he  silently  obeyed,  for  my  invi¬ 
tation  was  almost  a  command.  I  re-arranged  his  papers,  on 
the  table,  that  he  might  recover  himself  a  little  ;  but  when  I 
turned  to  speak,  he  put  his  hands  before  his  face  and  cried,  and 
when  I  inquired  what  was  the  matter,  it  was  long  before  he 
could  answer  me  that  his  sister  Mary  was  dead.  Then  it  was 
that  I  first  learned  all  his  sad  history  ;  and  if  I  had  been  in¬ 
terested  in  him  before,  I  was  doubly  so  now. 

Afterward  I  had  always  some  words  of  encouragement  when 
he  came  ;  sometimes  a  piece  of  pie  or  cake,  for  which  he  was 
very  grateful,  for  it  was  not  often  he  had  the  privilege  of  going 
to  Aunt  Dick’s. 

I  repeated  his  story  to  a  rich  lady  who  lived  near.  She  had 


WARD  HENDERSON. 


359 


often  noticed,  and  now  wished  to  aid  him.  “  But  how  shall  I 
manage  ?”  she  said  ;  “ I  cannot  give  him  clothes  or  money.”  At 
length  we  decided  on  a  plan  ;  and  the  next  day,  when  he  threw 
the  paper  in  at  the  basement,  she  called  and  told  him  that  if 
he  would  put  her  paper  on  a  particular  window,  she  would  pay 
him  on  New-Year’s  eve.  I  had  also  a  little  project  for  a 
present,  at  the  same  time,  of  which  I  said  nothing.  The  printer 
whom  Ward  served  was  a  hard  man,  but  he  was  honest;  that  is, 
he  paid  what  he  said  he  would  pay,  and  people  called  him 
Christian. 

The  many  sufferings,  hardships,  and  long  hours  of  home¬ 
sickness,  which  Ward  endured,  it  would  be  useless  to  enumerate, 
but  as  they  drew  near  the  close,  his  heart  became  light,  and  his 
countenance  cheerful. 

The  period  was  come  for  the  development  of  my  design.  I 
had  prepared  for  Ward  a  Carrier’s  Address,  for  the  printing  of 
which  he  stipulated  with  the  publisher,  and  the  receipts  were 
to  be  entirely  his. 

New-Year’s  morning  arrived  at  last,  clear  and  sharply  cold, 
but  Ward  minded  not  that,  for  the  nice  suit  of  clothes  the  rich 
lady  had  given  him,  kept  him  warm,  and  no  frost  could  get 
through  the  comfortable  boots,  and  the  new  cap  was  altogether 
better  than  the  old.  Such  a  picture  of  happiness  it  did  one 
good  to  see,  as,  tapping  at  my  door,  he  laughingly  handed  in  the 
Address,  neatly  printed,  with  a  border,  on  straw-colored  paper. 
He  had  disposed  of  nearly  all  the  copies  of  it,  and  the  shillings 
and  larger  pieces  he  had  received,  were  more,  he  thought,  than 
he  could  count. 

He  was  now  going  home,  and  only  sorrow  came  in  between 
him  and  happiness,  as  he  thought  of  the  new  and  lonesome 
grave  under  the  naked  winter  trees. 

Cousin  John,  who  obtained  a  great  deal  more  money  than  he, 
had  spent  it  as  fast  as  he  earned  it ;  he  could  tell  larger  stories  and 
eat  more  oysters  than  he  could  a  year  ago  ;  and  he  still  called  his 
father  the  butcher,  which  Aunt  Dick  thought  a  fine  accomplish¬ 
ment.  As  Ward  bade  the  amiable  woman  good-bye,  she  told 
him  to  spend  his  money  in  part  for  a  fine  silk  dress  for  his 
mother  ;  he  might  also  get  her  a  velvet  bonnet  with  plumes,  and 


360 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


a  shawl ;  these,  she  said,  would  be  a  nice  present,  and  if  he  had 
any  money  left,  he  should  get  some  sugar  for  his  mother  to 
make  preserves.  But  Ward  had  a  plan  of  his  own,  which  he 
thought  better.  He  was  going  to  give  his  mother  half  of  his 
money  to  do  with  as  she  thought  best,  and  the  rest  should  pay 
for  his  tuition  at  the  academy. 

As  the  twilight  fell  I  pleased  myself  with  making  a  picture 
of  the  cabin  home.  I  could  see  the  bright  hearth,  and  the  table 
all  spread — for  the  loving  mother  knew  her  dear  boy  was  coming 
— and  the  baby,  toddling  about  and  prattling — all  but  the  re¬ 
turning  son  forgotten.  And  I  could  imagine  the  joyous,  and 
yet  sorrowful,  bewilderment,  as  the  good  boy  should  spread  his 
year’s  gains  on  the  table,  saying,  “  If  Mary  were  here  too  !” 


CONCLUSION. 


861 


CONCLUSION. 

All  things  are  beautiful  in  their  time.  Even  Death,  whom 
the  poets  have  for  ages  made  hideous,  painting  him  as  a  skele¬ 
ton  reaper,  cutting  down  tender  flowers  and  ripe  grain,  and 
binding  them  into  bundles  for  his  dark  garner,  heedless  of  tears 
and  prayers,  is  sometimes  clothed  with  the  wings  and  the 
mercy  of  an  angel.  It  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  concep¬ 
tions  of  Blake,  displayed  in  those  illustrations  of  the  Night 
Thoughts  which  forever  should  cause  his  name  to  be  associated 
with  the  poet’s,  that  his  countenence  who  is  called  the  Last 
Enemy  was  all  sweetness  and  pitying  gentleness;  and  how 
many,  who  have  trembled  with  terror  at  his  approach,  have 
found  the  dearest  rest  in  his  embraces,  as  a  frightened  child  has 
forgotten  fear  in  wildest  joy  on  discovering  that  some  frightful 
being  was  only  its  mother,  masqued  for  playing.  Through  this 
still  messenger  “  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep.”  How  pleasant 
to  the  old  and  the  worn  to  resign  all  their  burdens  in  his  hands, 
to  lay  by  the  staff,  and  lie  down  under  canopies  of  flowers, 
assured  that  even  through  the  night  of  the  grave  the  morning 
will  break  !  Thrice  pleasant  to  the  old,  assured  of  having 
fought  the  good  fight,  and  who  feel,  beneath  the  touch  of  Death, 
their  white  locks  brightening  with  immortal  crowns.  They 
have  done  their  work,  and  only  Death  can  lead  them  up  to 
hear  from  the  master,  “  Well  done,  good  and  faithful  servant.” 
To  the  little  child  who  has  never  sinned,  he  comes  like  a 
light  slumber,  and  the  tempter,  through  the  long  bright  ages, 
has  no  power.  Only  through  the  narrow  and  dark  path  of  the 
grave  could  the  tender  feet  have  escaped  the  thorns — only  to 
the  bed  which  is  low  and  cold  may  the  delirium  of  passion  and 
the  torture  of  pain  never  come ;  so  to  the  child  the  foe  is  the 

kindest  of  friends — dearest  of  friends  I 

16 


362 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


One  of  the  loveliest  pictures  that  ever  rises  before  ine — I  see 
it  as  I  write — is  that  of  a  fair  creature  whose  life  was  early 
rounded  by  that  sleep  which  had  in  it  the  “rapture  of  repose” 
nothing  could  disturb  forever.  She  had  lain  for  days  moaning 
and  complaining,  and  we  who  loved  her  most  could  not  help 
her,  though  she  bent  on  us  her  mournfully  beseeching  eyes 
never  so  tenderly  or  imploringly.  But  when  the  writhing  of 
anguish  was  gone,  death  gave  to  her  cheek  its  beauty,  and  to 
her  lips  the  old  smile,  and  she  was  at  rest.  She  had  been 
lovely  in  her  life  and  now  she  was  transformed  into  an  angel 
of  the  beautiful  light,  the  fair  soft  light  of  the  good  and  change¬ 
less  world. 

And  for  the  wicked,  looking  over  ruins  they  have  made  of 
life’s  beauty,  friends  they  have  changed  to  foes,  love  they  have 
warped  to  hatred,  one  agonized  moment  of  repentance  has 
stretched  itself  up  to  the  infinite  mercy,  and  through  radiance 
streaming  from  the  cross,  has  sounded  the  soul-awakening  and 
inspiring  sentence,  “  Thy  sins  are  forgiven  !”  What  divine 
beauty  covers  the  darkness  that  is  before  and  around  him !  how 
blest  to  go  with  the  friend  who  has  come  for  him  down  into 
the  grave,  away  from  reproachful  eyes — away  from  haughty 
and  reviling  words — away  from  the  gentle  rebuking  of  the 
injured,  hardest  of  all  to  bear,  and  from  the  murmuring  and 
complaining  of  a  troubled  conscience ! 

Whatever  is  dreariest  in  nature  or  saddest  in  life  may  in 
its  time  be  bright  and  joyous — winter  itself,  with  its  naked 
boughs  and  bitter  winds,  and  masses  of  clouds  and  snow. 
Poverty,  too,  with  whom  none  of  us  voluntarily  mate  ourselves, 
has  given  birth  to  the  sweetest  humanities ;  its  toils  and  pri¬ 
vations  have  linked  hand  with  hand,  joined  shoulder  to  shoul¬ 
der,  knit  heart  to  heart ;  the  armies  of  the  poor  are  those  who 
fight  with  the  most  indomitable  courage,'  and  like  dust  before 
the  tempest  are  driven  the  obstacles  that  oppose  their  march; 
is  it  not  the  strength  of  their  sinews  that  shapes  the  rough  iron 
into  axe  and  sickle  1  and  does  not  the  wheat-field  stand  smil¬ 
ing  behind  them  and  the  hearth-light  reach  out  from  the  cabin 
to  greet  their  coming  at  night  1  Poverty  is  the  pioneer  about 
whose  glowing  forges  and  crashing  forests  burns  and  rings  half 


CONCLUSION. 


363 


the  poetry  that  has  filled  the  world.  Many  are  the  pleasant 
garlands  that  would  be  thrown  aside  if  affluence  were  univer¬ 
sal,  and  many  the  gentle  oxen  going  from  their  plowing  that 
would  herd  in  wild  droves  but  for  men’s  necessities.  The 
burdens  of  the  poor  are  heavy  indeed,  and  their  tasks  hard, 
but  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  in  their  modest  homes 
and  solitary  by-paths  is  a  pathos  and  tenderness  in  love,  a 
bravery  in  adversity,  a  humility  in  prosperity,  very  rarely 
found  in  those  conditions  where  character  is  less  severely 
tried,  and  the  virtues,  if  they  make  a  fairer  show,  grow  less 
strong  than  in  the  tempest,  and  the  summer  heat,  and  the  win¬ 
ter  cold. 

It  has  been  objected  by  some  critics  to  the  former  series  of 
these  sketches  of  Western  rural  life,  that  they  are  of  too 
sombre  a  tone;  that  a  melancholy  haze,  an  unnatural  twilight, 
hangs  too  continually  over  every  scene  ;  but  I  think  it  is  not 
so ;  if  my  recollections  of  “  Clovernook”  fail  to  suggest  as 
much  happiness  as  falls  to  the  common  lot,  my  observation 
has  been  unfortunate.  I  have  not  attempted  any  descriptions 
of  the  gay  world  ;  others — nearly  all  indeed  of  those  writers 
of  my  sex  who  have  essayed  to  amuse  or  instruct  society — 
have  apparently  been  familiar  only  with  wealth  and  splendor, 
and  such  joys  or  sorrows  as  come  gracefully  to  mingle  with 
the  refinements  of  luxury  and  art;  but  my  days  have  been 
passed  with  the  humbler  classes,  whose  manners  and  expe¬ 
riences  I  have  endeavored  to  exhibit  in  their  customary  lights 
and  shadows,  and  in  limiting  myself  to  that  domain  to  which  I 
was  born,  it  has  never  been  in  my  thoughts  to  paint  it  as  less 
lovely  or  more  exposed  to  tearful  influences  than  it  is.  If 
among  those  whose  attention  may  be  arrested  by  these  unam¬ 
bitious  delineations  of  scenes  in  “  our  neighborhood, ’’there  be 
any  who  have  climbed  through  each  gradation  of  fortune  or 
consideration  up  to  the  stateliest  distinctions,  let  them  judge 
whether  the  “simple  annals  of  the  poor”  are  apt  to  be  more 
bright,  and  the  sum  of  enjoyment  is  greater  in  even  those  ele¬ 
vations,  to  attain  to  which  is  so  often  the  most  fondly  cherished 
hope  of  youth  and  maturity. 

In  our  country,  though  all  men  are  not  “created  equal,” 


364 


OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


such  is  the  influence  of  the  sentiment  of  liberty  and  political 
equality,  that 

“  All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 

Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame,” 

may  with  as  much  probability  be  supposed  to  affect  conduct 
and  expectation  in  the  log  cabin  as  in  the  marble  mansion;  and 
to  illustrate  this  truth,  to  dispel  that  erroneous  belief  of  the 
necessary  baseness  of  the  “  common  people”  which  the  great 
masters  in  literature  have  in  all  ages  labored  to  create,  is  a 
purpose  and  an  object  in  our  nationality  to  which  the  finest  and 
highest  genius  may  wisely  be  devoted  ;  but  which  may  be 
effected  in  a  degree  by  writings  as  unpretending  as  these  remi¬ 
niscences  of  wrhat  occurred  in  and  about  the  little  village 
where  I  from  childhood  watched  the  pulsations  of  surround¬ 
ing  hearts. 


V 


